The Mystery of the Lionsmere Ghosts
by Jenz127
Summary: COMPLETE! Holmes and Watson are involved in a case where they must face the Ghosts of the past, and Horrors of the Present, and the solution may not be rational...please read and review! Rated T to be safe.
1. Prologue

**OK, this is a little prologue/teaser of something I have just started working on today - but due to exam revision, exams, work experience and other mad stuff, it might take me a while to actually get the first chapter up. I just want to know - what do you think?**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of Doyle's creations. Unfortunately.**

**Prologue**

The dark took hold of him, choking him in its intensity. Peter tried to run, but something held him back. All around him, it seemed like the walls, the paintings were coming alive, the eyes of men and women long dead boring into his soul and stopping his breath. He did not believe in ghosts…they were not real…he had to keep telling himself that, had to believe that in some way those words would fend off the terror which wrapped itself around his heart.

"I can hear you…" the voice cut through the darkness like a shard of glass. It was a woman's voice, crystal clear, sharp, and refined. He heard something…whispers in the dark all around him, he could not hear what they were saying…just murmurs, mutterings.

Peter made for the door, tried to leave, but it was locked fast, bolted from the outside. The voices rose in intensity, the woman's voice coming crystal clear "I can see you…" Peter screamed, scared out of his wits. He ran to the window. He made sure the glass did not stop him…

* * *

"Suicide" the man stated the fact "But such a look of terror on his face…" He stood up from his position next to the body.

"What shall I say, Inspector Lestrade?" asked the young constable, standing nearby, notebook in hand.

"It looks like a suicide. There are men searching the house?"

"It was empty."

"Ah. I see."

"Inspector…"

"Yes?"

"Is it suicide?"

"I do not know. But I know a man who might be interested."


	2. A Case is Presented

**Hi everyone! Sorry for the wait - exams were taking up most of my time - but now they are over, so I can get back to writing. By the way - there is a poll on my profile about this story, so if you could take a look and vote, that would be fantastic! Also in reference to the story, as with before, it is mostly according to the Granada productions (no Mary Watson, for example) but the cases are (I think) all in canonical order. The story is set in the same 'universe' as 'Morton Manor' (go and have a look!) so Holmes is about 32, and Watson is around 35.**

**Disclaimer - As ever, I do not own any of Doyle's creations. In fact I own very little in this story apart from Lionsmere.**

**Chapter 1**

25th October 1889

For the last eight years in which Holmes and I had been flatmates, colleagues and friends, I had recounted those cases in which Holmes' powers of deduction and singular gifts as a detective are best show-cased. I have refrained from recounting some of the more extraordinary cases, ones in which the very fabric of society and rationality can be shaken. However, perhaps for this case I will make an exception. It was a case which taxed our minds and bodies, and which, on more than one occasion, nearly led to our deaths.

The case of the Lionsmere Ghosts was brought to us on a warm but foggy day in the year 1889, a few days before All Hallows. The days preceding this case were marked with the resolution of a remarkable blackmail case, and now, it is safe to say that my friend was beginning to tire of our enforced inactivity. On the blackmail case, Holmes had chased the entire length and breadth of England for our quarry, and had accomplished his ends minus a couple of his teeth, and had gained a large cut across his stomach, which although not deep, was rather painful. I had, therefore, recommended three days of complete rest. It was now the second day, and I was beginning to tire of his sighs, moans and of the nuisance he was making of himself.

"For heavens sake, Holmes!" I cried "Is there nothing you can do? Read the paper perhaps? Or play your violin?"

"I have already read the paper. There is nothing of interest. And I need new sheet music, but I am unable to procure any since you have imprisoned me in these rooms."

"You are not leaving, Holmes. You will put undue stress on your wound." I picked up the paper. "There must be something of interest, Holmes…ah, here we are! The theft of the Countess Rosadoff's jewels…"

"Taken by her husband to pawn. They will be replaced in a couple of days with very convincing paste reproductions."

I stared at him, for a minute, then decided not to inflame his ego with my curiosity. "Very well, a kidnapping…"

"The husband again, I fear…"

"A suicide…"

"Boring."

"The loss of a rather remarkable exhibit from the British Museum…"

"Boring."

I studied him, and then the paper. "You are determined to be difficult."

Holmes quirked a smile at me "I rather think I am."

"Sometimes, Holmes, you are very childish."

"And sometimes, Watson, you act more like my father than my friend. You are getting old."

"Old, am I?"

"Indeed, in fact, I…" Holmes was stopped in his flow of speech by a flying cushion from my sofa, which struck him squarely in the face. He looked at me, and I smiled innocently at him, and went back to my book. I heard a suppressed chuckle from Holmes. Ten minutes later, his amusement had passed, and he was restless again. "Watson…"

"What?"

"How about a game of chess?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because, Holmes, it is not uncommon for you to beat me, very well. Of the last ten games we have played together, I think I have won once, and that was due to your distraction when a pigeon flew into our window."

Holmes grinned "Fencing, then?"

"No Holmes. Can you not find anything at all to do?" I smiled wickedly "I am sure, if you asked Mrs Hudson very nicely, she would teach you to knit."

Holmes grimaced at me, but I noticed his eyes sparkle with merriment. Our cosy chat, however, was interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Lestrade, from Scotland Yard. A small, skinny little man, perhaps the kindest similarity that can be attributed to him is that of a rat. He was, however, not an entirely unpleasant person, and I had grown quite fond of him over the last few years. "Mr Holmes," he said in greeting, "Doctor Watson." He looked to the sofa "Ah, I see you have the morning paper."

"My dear Lestrade," said Holmes "Your powers as a detective are positively aglow this morning. What an observation!"

Lestrade did not seem to know whether Holmes was jesting or complimenting him, so he compromised, with a half-smile and by accepting a glass of brandy when I offered, as well as by taking a seat. "Er…thank you, Mr Holmes."

"And what, pray, do we owe this pleasure to…?" Holmes continued. I saw a glimmer of hope in his eyes. Lestrade rarely came on social calls. He usually came to present Holmes with a case.

"Well, Mr Holmes," said Lestrade "It is about this suicide…"

"Ha!" Holmes let out a frustrated exclamation and jumped from his seat "Then I do not touch it. It is a suicide, Inspector. The man was at the end of his tether, and, as our colonial cousins say, he topped himself. Hardly a matter to tempt _me_. Good day, Lestrade."

"Holmes!" I said, sternly. "You are being rude."

Holmes looked at me, saw the expression on my face, and had the grace to look a little shamed. He nodded, and sat in his armchair. "Of course, please continue Inspector."

"I know you do not usually deal in suicides, Mr Holmes. But this was somewhat…different."

"Yes?" Holmes said impatiently. I shot him a look. He squirmed a little, and tempered his question with "…Inspector…"

"Well, this is the problem. The gentleman in question had no reason to commit suicide. He was young, rich, about to be married, and had just purchased a new home to live in after his marriage. By all accounts, he was perfectly happy."

"That does not mean anything sinister, Lestrade" Holmes said, impatient again, "Maybe he received some bad news on that day."

"That is not the only problem, Mr. Holmes."

"Then what is it?"

"The look on his face. A look of absolute and morbid fear."

"Perhaps," I suggested, "Brought on by the knowledge of his impending death."

"No. I have dealt with suicides before," Lestrade answered "This was something rather…different. The look on his face was like he had seen the devil."

There was what can only be described as a rather stunned silence. "The devil?" I asked, wonderingly.

"The devil," said Lestrade. "And that, coupled with the rumours…"

"Rumours?" said Holmes, his curiosity being aroused "What rumours?"

"Do not laugh."

"Inspector?"

"The villagers say that the house from which he fell, and the village in which he died were…haunted."

"Haunted?" Holmes said. Then he started to laugh, loudly "Dear Lord, Lestrade. But this is nonsense."

I however, was rather chilled by this statement. I am not a superstitious or fantastical man, but I am not overly sure that the idea of monsters from beyond the grave is false. Ghosts can take all different forms, from those of and in the mind, to the popular non-corporeal shimmery kind, that float around clanking chains and bringing woe and misfortune. For so many stories to be told, some part of them surely must be true. For myself, I have been visited by ghosts of the past many times in my nightmares.

"I knew you would laugh!" Lestrade said "I shall note this death as a suicide and go back to the Yard. One day, Holmes, your lack of imagination will be your undoing."

He made for the door, but Holmes jumped up and moved quickly to stand in front of him "My dear man, please. You are quite right, of course. I am justifiably scolded. Please, sit and tell of these rumours. Then I shall tell you if I can aid you."

Lestrade, who now seemed rather happier, nodded and went to retake his seat. Holmes glanced at me, as if to say _well, Watson, this should be an entertainment if nothing else_, and went to sit back in his armchair. "Now, Lestrade," he said "The facts." He pulled his legs up so that he was cross-legged, steepled his fingers and closed his eyes, and Lestrade began his narrative.


	3. The Story of Lionsmere

**Hi, hope you are enjoying this! I am going to try to update this every couple of days, as well as working on my currently on-hiatus story 'Unsolved' (I am beginning to get a few ideas for it!) Please, please read and review, and remember the poll on my profile.**

**Chapter 2**

Lestrade was not a completely natural story-teller. Unlike myself, and, to a lesser extent, as much as he tries to deny it, Holmes, he was always rather lacking in imagination, a very straight-talking man, who always aimed to tell a narrative in the most direct and concise way. Due to this, it was rather comical watching him in his attempts to relate to us a ghost story, which was probably more often told to children. He spoke hesitantly, and I could tell that Holmes was getting more and more irritated as the story continued. He wanted solid facts about the nature of this story and these rumours, rather than an embarrassed account by an uncomfortable Inspector.

"Lestrade," I said, and I hope my voice was kind, rather than patronising. "Just tell us the facts. The way that it was told to you. If it helps, you could pretend that we are your children, and you are telling us a story at Halloween…"

There was a snort of laughter from Holmes. Lestrade, however, looked marginally more comfortable, and seemed to relax in his chair, especially after I rose and poured him a glass of whisky, handing it to him as I walked back to my place. Lestrade looked gratefully at me.

"Continue, Lestrade," said Holmes imperiously.

"Er…yes, very well. Well, perhaps I should tell you firstly where Lionsmere is. The village is located about fifteen miles from Winchester. It is a small village, with a tiny church, a public house, a couple of shops and around thirty houses. There is also a large manor house, in the form of a medieval castle in the middle of the village, named Lionsmere House. It is, now, I suppose, unoccupied…"

Holmes looked questioningly at him "Now?"

"The man who died, Peter Phelps, was the House's new owner. He had managed to buy the house for rather a bargain at an auction in Winchester."

"He threw himself from the window of his own house?" I asked, shocked. I had heard of people throwing themselves from bridges, carriages, but never from the windows of their own houses.

"And why was the House so cheap, Lestrade?" asked Holmes.

"Well, I suppose if I am to tell you that I shall have to tell you the…ghost story…"

"Lestrade…for heavens sake, I am beginning to tire of you. Tell me about the story."

Lestrade glanced at me, and winked. I hid a smile as I realised that his reticence was a show. He wanted Holmes to beg to hear of the circumstances of the Ghosts of Lionsmere. He was more sharp-witted than Holmes gave him credit for. "Very well, gentlemen. I suppose, as Dr Watson would doubtless say, the story begins around three hundred years ago, in the year 1575. At that time, England was under the governance of another queen, Elizabeth I…"

"Yes, thank you, Lestrade…" interrupted Holmes, impatiently "Watson may think that I am somewhat unknowledgeable when it comes to some subjects, but I do remember some of my school history."

"Er…yes…sorry, Mr Holmes. Anyway, the year 1570 marked the beginning of the 'witch hunts', with a number of people, mostly women it must be remarked, accused of witchcraft. By the year 1575, the fervour to rid England of their view of magic had reached all areas of the country. Shortly after the beginning of October, the Lord of the Lionsmere house, as well as his manservant, and two sons, were found dead in their beds. Apparently, there were no marks on their bodies…"

"So the deaths were attributed to witchcraft…"

"Quite. The Lady of Lionsmere was accused of witchcraft, and with the murders of the four men. She denied it, but of course, she was guilty - although now, the deaths would be attributed to poison rather than magic. She suffered the one of the most painful deaths available at that time. She was burned at the stake in the centre of the village."

I shuddered "So the house is said to be haunted by her avenging spirit?"

"That is not the end of the story. The House fell into the ownership of a cousin of the family, a man by the name of John Carey. He was, by all accounts, a rather weak man, and by the end of the year, had married one of the Lord and Lady of Lionsmere's daughters, Rose. She was a 'raven haired beauty', but there was great suspicion of her, especially when she moved her two sisters, Jemima and Anne, into the house as well, and began to rule over her husband. Later, Carey came out and accused the women of performing magic to bend him to their will. They were ducked, and two years after the death of their mother, were subject to the same fate - to be burned to death."

"So the ghosts are of the four women - the mother and daughters?"

"It is believed so. The area became somewhat of a hotbed of witch-burnings in the next few years, with most of the female servants of the House also being burned. In the end, the House was deserted, and it was put up to be sold. Then the stories began. People in the village told of white figures being seen, of terrible screams heard, of suspicious deaths. Everyone who took the house was eventually run out, or committed suicide."

"Superstition," said Holmes.

"Maybe. But then, there is another, somewhat more interesting advancement. Ten years ago, a young woman who again, bought the house at auction went completely missing. There was no sign of her ever again."

"A single woman, who bought a house on her own?" I asked, a little surprised.

"Indeed. From then on, the tales of ghosts increased in intensity. There were stories of headless horsewomen, hanging bodies…"

"Rather morbid…" Holmes noted.

I stared at him "It _is_ a ghost story, Holmes."

"Watson, please. Remember we are rationalists."

I nodded, but exchanged a grin with Lestrade. Trust Holmes to bring us back to reality.

"So, no one wishes to own the house?" Holmes asked.

"Not everyone is as much of a sceptic as you, Holmes. Some people do actually believe in these stories. Over the last ten years, since the disappearance of the girl, three men have committed suicide, not including Phelps. The house has been taken by families, who have all stayed less than a month. Two people have been declared insane. There is something in that village, Holmes. But I cannot for the life of me decide what it is. Ghosts? The power of suggestion and rumour?"

"And the village as a whole - what of that?"

"Many of the villagers believe the stories, and around half have said that they saw the ghosts for themselves. The stories also place ghosts in the village - an empty carriage travelling down the high street, strange screams in the night…"

"But" said Holmes "Most of the 'activity' is concentrated around the House?"

"Yes. The vast majority."

Holmes nodded, and seemed to be considering something. "Lestrade," Holmes' voice had taken on a serious tone, and I felt a chill go up my spine. From Holmes' tone, I would guess that he…believed? No, surely not. But he did believe there was some danger. "You are completely sure something drove the man to suicide?"

"Yes." Lestrade sounded absolutely sure, and I glanced at Holmes. His face had hardened.

"Very well," said Holmes "I will trust your instincts and take the case."

"But Holmes," I said, looking at him questioningly "You said it was superstition."

"Superstition can have the greatest power over people. Surely you saw that in the Baskerville case? There is…something in that house…and whatever it is, it has caused the deaths of a large number of people over the last ten years, ever since the disappearance of the woman."

"And before that?" asked Lestrade.

"Now, that was superstition." He looked up at the clock. "Ah, my dear Watson, you have an appointment at your club soon, do you not?"

"But Holmes…"

"I promise you, I will do nothing without my Boswell by my side. Go and enjoy yourself, Watson, and we will meet at eight o'clock. Here I think, as there is nothing extraordinary on at the theatre. I will go with Lestrade and study his case notes at Scotland Yard and…" Holmes stopped, scribbled a message on a piece of paper, and called to Mrs Hudson. She came up the stairs, and Holmes gave her the paper. "Have one of the boys - Billy, I think is outside - send that. The address is on the outside of the packet."

"Yes, Mr Holmes."

"And we are going out, Mrs Hudson. No doubt the Doctor will want his dinner when we return. About eight o'clock, I think. And we will have a visitor. They will want tea, I should think."

Mrs Hudson nodded, and I smiled. Holmes was suddenly enlivened, like he had awakened from a long slumber - all boredom gone. "Who is the note to, Holmes?" I asked.

"You will find out this evening. Now, come Doctor! Or you will be late for your meeting with Thurston at the club. Go! Go!" And Holmes chivvied me out of the door so quickly, I only just had time to receive my hat, coat, stick and gloves from Mrs Hudson. Holmes ran out of the house, followed by Lestrade, and jumped into a cab, the poor Inspector, a shorter-legged person than my friend trying to keep up, and having to run after the cab for a bit before Holmes helped to pull him in.

I stood on the doorstep and glanced at Mrs Hudson "He has a case, Mrs Hudson."

"I had surmised that much."

"For a man who prides himself on keeping his emotions to himself, he is terribly readable."

"As long as he does not make too much mess in that sitting room. It took me three days, and a new pair of curtains to make it presentable after last time."

I smiled "Do not worry yourself, Mrs Hudson, I will try to keep him under control."

"I did not think that was possible."

"Well, good point. But I will make sure he tidies up after himself. And he does not blow anything up in the process of the investigation."

"If you would not mind, Doctor. Well, have a nice time at your club."

"I am sure I will. As long as the conversation does not turn to ghosts, I shall be quite happy."


	4. A Visitor

**Hi! Thank you for all your reviews for this - it's very encouraging! Please Read and Review! I hope you enjoy this next chapter!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of Conan Doyle's characters.**

**Chapter 3**

25th October 1889, Evening

My meeting with Thurston ended earlier than I had expected, which meant that I arrived back at Baker Street by half-past seven. I was met at the door by Mrs Hudson, who informed me that we had a visitor. I have to admit that I was still a little on edge after our discussion about Holmes' new case earlier, and it was not without a little trepidation that I made my way up the stairs, and entered the lounge. I smiled though, when I saw who it was.

"Lady Meredith!"

Meredith Throckmorton, a young woman who Holmes and I had met last Christmas when her father had been murdered grinned back at me "Hello, Doctor! I hope you are well?"

"Very, thank you."

I had seen Meredith only recently, Holmes being fond of the young lady and often taking her to plays and operas. Despite her background of the daughter of an Earl, Meredith had been left very little money on his death, but had been employed as a teacher at a prestigious Girl's Academy in Kensington.

"May I ask," I continued "Why you are here?"

"Oh, he did not tell you…" Meredith held out a piece of paper. The message was in Holmes' handwriting, and had been written in haste, leaving me to presume that it had been Meredith who Holmes had sent for before we left. The message read: _Lady Meredith, If you are not busy, please research the history and Ghost Story concerning the village of Lionsmere. If you are busy, please do it anyway. Yours, SH_. I groaned at the rudeness of the missive, but luckily, Meredith seemed to find it quite amusing. "I have to say, it was rather a shock…"

"I am very sorry, Meredith. Holmes does tend to be rather direct when he needs information. Were you busy?"

"Actually, I was. I have about twenty books waiting for me to mark back at the school, a lecture to plan on 'Romeo and Juliet', a report on one of the students for our rather…overbearing headmistress, and dorm duty tomorrow night, so I would like to go to sleep before midnight."

"I am terribly sorry…I will tell Holmes he was out of line."

"My dear man, please do not worry about it. As you most probably know, seeing Mr Holmes on a fairly regular makes you rather used to his…moods."

"You are very understanding."

Meredith chuckled "Thank you."

"What did you think of the Ghost Story?"

Meredith seemed a little tentative. "I…it is rather…to be truthful, I do not know. All logic is against the explanation of ghosts, but there is something…"

"You think there might be ghosts?"

"I do not know. I am sorry, I am being terribly vague, but I just do not quite know what to believe. I mean, it is ghosts! It is against all rationality…but every legend has to have a figment of truth in it."

"Yes. I must confess, I am rather dubious about going to this Lionsmere."

Meredith glanced at me for a second, before handing me a sheaf of paper. "I think I should probably be going, Dr Watson. Please extend my compliments to Mr Holmes, although you may want to tell him that if he tries to summon me in such a way again, I shall ignore it!" Something in Meredith's voice however belied that.

We both looked up as the front door slammed, and a string of very colourful curses were shouted by the man entering. Meredith's eyes widened, and she chuckled. I however, felt rather embarrassed, and went to the lounge door. Opening it, I shouted down the stairs "Holmes! We have a guest!"

Holmes fell silent, and I grinned at Meredith, as we heard Holmes come up the stairs. He entered the room, looking abashed and rather sheepish, and his eyes lit on Meredith "I…er…sorry about that, Lady Meredith."

Meredith grinned "That is quite alright, Mr Holmes."

"Did you manage to get the information?" Holmes changed the subject quickly, and again, I inwardly cursed his lack of tact and manners.

"Yes, I did, Mr Holmes. I have given the information to Dr Watson. Thank you for the note, by the way…I see that you have lost none of your engaging penmanship."

Holmes fell silent…did I imagine a look of shame in his eyes?

"Well," I said, my voice light, "We have dragged poor lady Meredith away from her charges for long enough."

"Thank you, Doctor."

Meredith rose, and was about to walk out of the door, when Holmes said "I am very sorry about the terseness of the message I sent you. I did not mean to offend…"

The girl turned and beamed at him "I am not offended, I assure you." A look of concern fell across her features and she said "Mr Holmes, Dr Watson, please be careful in Lionsmere. There is some danger there, I know it. Please promise that you will try to stay safe."

"You fear ghosts?" Holmes said, in surprise.

"No. But I do fear that there is something in that place. Please watch yourselves."

Holmes nodded, and said quietly "I hope when this is over, you will join me for another opera. I have heard that one of the new productions is very good."

"I would be pleased to. Goodnight, gentlemen."

Meredith left, and we heard her conversing cheerily with Mrs Hudson downstairs as she collected her coat, before being shown out and hailing a cab.

I turned to Holmes "That really was rather rude, old man. You are very fortunate that Meredith did not take offence."

"She is more thick-skinned than that, Watson."

I sighed, thinking that Sherlock Holmes would never understand women, and sat in my armchair, taking out my pipe and lighting it. Holmes, meanwhile had done the same, and we sat in companionable silence for around quarter of an hour, before I spoke up "Did you find anything interesting out at the Yard?"

"Three rather singular facts…"

"Go on…"

"The first is a fact we have already discussed, that no trace of the woman who went missing was ever discovered again…"

"Why is that singular?"

"Because when I say no trace, I mean no trace. No previous address, no clothes left in wardrobes, furniture stripped from the house, no family…nothing."

"Like she were a ghost herself."

Holmes glanced at me "Now come, Watson. You cannot allow your imagination to run away with you. It is all these lu…"

"If you call my writings lurid and romantic, one more time, Holmes, I shall switch your tobacco for something unpleasant…"

"Oh, very well. Any way, I continue. The second interesting fact is that the suicides that have taken place are always single men who have taken the house. Never married men, or men with families."

"A kind ghost?"

"An interesting concept." Holmes corrected me, and continued "The third interesting fact is that no floor plans of the house have ever been discovered. The Yard has hunted high and low for them, but none can be found."

"A ghost house?"

"For heavens sake, Watson! Please stop making utterances like a frightened maiden in a gothic novel! It is very annoying."

"Sorry Holmes…And what of the information you made Meredith find?"

"The popular story of the ghosts of Lionsmere. I believe she is also going to try and look into housing records, but no doubt she did not have time today."

"No wonder, Holmes. The headmistress at that school seems to be working the poor girl like a carthorse! Marking, reports…"

"Which is exactly the reason I never sought to have a job in which I answered to someone else…" muttered to Holmes.

"I cannot see you answering to anyone else…apart from your brother of course…"

"Er…yes. Hopefully Meredith will be able to send us the information when we reach Lionsmere. I have given her the address of the local police station, so hopefully we will have the information soon."

"When are we going to Lionsmere?"

"Tomorrow, my dear fellow…if you do not mind joining me?"

"Of course not, Holmes."

"And," Holmes continued, passing me back Meredith's copious notes, complete with detailed annotations "Something for you to read on the train."

"And why cannot you do it?"

"I think the subject matter of sensationalism is rather more to your taste than mine."

I sighed, and received the notes, before turning to go up to my room. "One day, Holmes, I will force you to read Mr Stoker, or as Meredith suggested, Mrs Shelley's book. I think you may enjoy them…"

"I sincerely doubt that, old fellow. Goodnight, Watson."

"Goodnight. And try and get some sleep. If we are to fight ghosts in the morning, we will need all our strength and wits about us."

"Goodnight, Watson." Holmes said, with an air of finality, as if to tell me to stop fussing about him.

I made my way upstairs, and fell into a sleep full of dreams of old castles, white ladies and falling out of windows… I woke early the next morning, jolted to the land of the living by my flat mate, who had decided, it seemed, to wake me up by tickling my feet. After I had shouted him out of my bedroom, I had dressed, packed, and within one hour, the two of us were in a cab, on the way to the station to catch the nine o'clock train to Winchester.


	5. Adventures on a Train

**Disclaimer - I do not own Holmes or Watson, or any other Conan Doyle related ideas. I do own Lionsmere (wow, a whole village!)**

**Chapter 4**

As was usual when travelling with Holmes, the train was leaving the station just as we arrived, so it was necessary for us to sprint and jump aboard a moving carriage in order to get to Winchester. Holmes had gone on before, pulled a door open, and grabbed hold of my hand to help me aboard too. "For heavens sake, Holmes!" I exclaimed "Do you not think just for once we might be able to get on a train without cutting it so fine I almost break my leg?"

Holmes grinned, and murmured "All part of the fun, my dear Watson."

"Fun? I do not call being woken up extortionately early by a mad detective tickling your feet and then having to almost kill myself getting on a train 'fun', Holmes!"

Holmes looked at me and laughed, and despite myself, I laughed too. "Come, Watson," Holmes said "Let us go and find ourselves a compartment."

We walked along the train, which, for the time of day was rather busy, until we found ourselves one which had just been vacated by a man and his young wife, who told us that they were getting off at the next station. I, at least, thanked them profusely, and sat as the train came to a halt at the station. I watched the two get off, and turned to Holmes. "Rather busy today, old man."

"What? Oh, yes…" Holmes had obviously been considering something else. "Yes, it is."

I sat back and watched the scenery fly by. After a while, my stomach grumbled, and my head started to ache, a malady often brought on for me by a lack of food and sleep. "Holmes," I said "I am going to the restaurant car. Do you want anything?"

"No, Watson," Holmes seemed, as he often did on long train journeys, rather lethargic, "Go, feed yourself."

"You have not eaten in some time, Holmes. Are you sure I cannot bring you back something?"

"Nothing, Watson." Holmes voice showed his irritation, and I made to leave. The atmosphere, affected by Holmes' bad mood, no doubt, was rather oppressive.

"I will be back soon, Holmes." I exited the compartment, and made my way to the restaurant, hoping that Holmes would take the time that I was vacant to sleep. He obviously had neither slept nor eaten for at least two days. Entering the car, I ordered myself a cup of tea, and a full English Breakfast, and sat back to enjoy my food. Finishing my tea, I sat back to enjoy another.

As I sat there, a young conductor walked in and leant against the small bar to talk to the barman, who was obviously his friend. "Oi, Mikey," he said, in a very Scottish accent "There's a bloke in compartment 10, smokin' like a bloomin' chimney 'e is. I tried t' bang on the door, but the bloke's asleep."

"'E got t' winder open?" asked the barman

"Probably."

I smiled, and sat back. Sounded like something Holmes would do. Except Holmes would never smoke so much tobacco in so short a time, especially if there was the threat that he might run out. But wait…compartment ten was ours, was it not? That was very unlike Holmes…we had no idea when we would be back, no idea whether the shop at Lionsmere would sell any good tobacco… I got up, and paid for my food. Something was not right.

The corridor was empty when I started to walk quickly down it. I felt my heart-rate quicken, and my footsteps get faster. My instinct was telling me something was terribly wrong. Suddenly I heard something, like a muffled scream. And a cry, like someone was crying out through a muffler "Watson…"

I took to my heels and ran down to our compartment. Flinging wide the compartment door, a barrage of smoke flowed out. But it was not smoke…not ordinary tobacco smoke. It was something else (1). Holmes was sitting on his seat, the window closed shut. He was writhing about, gasping for air, his iron composure and usual self-control completely abandoned. Taking a deep breath, I entered the smoky compartment, and grabbed hold of Holmes by the arms, flinging him over my shoulder, and staggering out. I looked into the next compartment and, noticing somewhat to my surprise that it was empty, opened the door, and laid my friend on the seat. I checked his pulse, which was strong, if rapid, and his breathing, which was also very fast, as he gasped in large quantities of good air, and ran next door again, opening the window, grabbing Holmes' coat and shutting the compartment door behind me. I then went next door to rejoin my friend.

Holmes was still not yet conscious, and his breathing was beginning to be too fast. I knelt by his side, and placed a hand on his chest, speaking as calmly as I could "Hush, old man…it's alright…breath slowly…one breath at a time, old fellow." I counted, slowly to ten, and by the time I had reached five, my friend's breathing had regulated to be almost normal. I checked his pulse again. It was strong, and calming down too. "Holmes?" I said, "Holmes?"

Holmes' eyes opened, but he did not seem completely all together. Instead, he let out a yell of terror "No! No! Please…no!"

"Holmes!" I said "Holmes! It is alright. Holmes, please!"

He started to thrash, pushing my hands away from where I had been holding onto the lapels of his jacket. "No…please! Please, don't hurt him…Watson!!"

I realised what Holmes' waking nightmare was about…me? He was worried about me? I took hold of one of Holmes' hands in mine, and with the other, braced his shoulder "Holmes!" I shouted "It is alright! Everything is alright! I am safe!"

The thrashing stopped, and Holmes opened his eyes. "Watson?" He seemed a little confused "Watson…what happened?"

"I do not really know, Holmes. I think there was some sort of drug in the compartment. I could go and check…"

But Holmes had taken hold of my hand in a vice-like grip "No…Watson…"

I returned to my knees, so that I knelt next to him "Alright, my old friend. I will not go, do not fear."

He looked at me, nodded and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he was more himself. With my help, he managed to sit up, and wrap his coat around himself. He was shivering, so I wrapped my own around him too, and determined that when he felt up to me leaving, I would go and get him a cup of something hot, and some hot food. But for now, I must stay. I believed that that shivering may not just be cold, but also fear…not that I would say anything of that effect to Holmes. "Watson…" I looked up.

"What is it?"

"Watson, did I…cry out…anything?"

I looked at him, for a minute, wondering what to say. But I realised that even at the risk of his pride, after this shock, honesty was the best policy by far "Yes, you did, old man. But do not worry…I assure you, I do not think any the less of you for it. We all have monsters…"

Holmes nodded gratefully "Thank you, Watson. And thank you for saving my life. It was rather a close shave, was it not?" He smiled dryly, and I could not help smiling back.

"What do you think it was?"

"Some combustible chemical? I do not know. But all remnants will be gone now. It is over. We are safe." He said this to himself as if reciting a mantra, and I stared at him.

"But Holmes! You do not think we are being followed? Or someone does not wish us to go to Lionsmere…"

"No. It was probably an isolated attack. I am sure I recognised the man and woman. It was probably someone angry about my involvement in a past case…"

"Holmes, do not be flippant about this…"

"Watson…if it was an attempt on my life, thanks to you it did not succeed. My Boswell came to the rescue just in time."

"But…"

"For heavens sake, man!" His voice was hard, but it softened when he perceived my face "I am sorry. But we cannot allow this to interfere. This event and the situation in Lionsmere are most probably completely unrelated."

"You cannot tell me you believe that."

"Watson…"

"You have not eaten or slept in days. You have been bored…"

"And you think I took something while your back was turned?"

"No, I do not think that." Holmes looked at me quizzically, and despite the bombshell I was going to drop, I looked him straight in the face "Because for the last few months, I have been diluting your…potions with water. You have been dosing yourself with nothing stronger than enough to cure a headache."

"Watson!" Holmes' voice was angry.

"You do not understand, Holmes! Do you really think that I want to come home one day to find you lying dead on the floor, your heart given out or your body too full of those chemicals to function? I did this for you, yes, but perhaps selfishly, I also did it for me!"

My voice had risen to a shout, and Holmes looked at me in surprise, before nodding, and saying softly "I am sorry, old man. What way is this to thank you after saving my life? Do you forgive me?"

I sighed, reached forward and patted his arm "There is nothing to forgive, my dear friend."

"But," said Holmes, his voice stronger "I cannot allow this to compromise the Lionsmere case."

"Very well. I will not mention it again. Until all of this is done."

"Thank you, Watson."

We travelled in an easy silence until reaching Winchester. Holmes' legs were still a little shaky, and much to his chagrin, I had to help him off of the train. We passed through the station, and I managed to commandeer a cart and driver, who, after protests about not wanting to go to 'That blasted haunted place' gave in and agreed to take us. I also managed to procure a blanket from the driver (more protests…) to help to keep Holmes warm.

We travelled the fifteen miles in the cart and were dropped off just outside the village, the driver adamant he would go no further. A little irritated, I paid the man, and took Holmes' elbow to help to guide him into the village. The first thing I noticed was the quiet. There were people around, but the place was almost silent, and we were being eyed warily, as if we were monsters or ghosts ourselves. Holmes was beginning to sag onto me, giving way to his immense exhaustion, and I looked for the tavern knowing, almost for a fact that there would be rooms free. The village was dark, dull and lifeless, perhaps due to the grey colour of the sky, but also due to the dark stone houses and lack of greenery and flowers.

The castle-like outline of Lionsmere house was obvious. It rose out of the village like an island out of the sea, dark stone again, medieval and forbidding. The gates were guarded by two immense stone lions, which sat imperiously, and looked rather life-like. Their red eyes shone out of their heads. A little unnerved, I hurried on, Holmes getting heavier and heavier as I continued, every so often murmuring "I'm sorry Watson…"

"That's quite alright, old man. Hold on, and I will find us somewhere to rest." the little church was also forbidding, with a large churchyard, disproportionate to the size of the church. The tavern was next door, another rather frightening building, named 'The Lion's Head'. The sigh outside had a very gruesome picture of a decapitated Lion, covered in blood. I grimaced, and against my better judgement entered. The place was cold, quiet and still, despite the fact that people were in there drinking.

A barman looked up, at us, unwelcomingly and said "Wha' d'ya wan'?"

"Rooms, my good man." I said in my most confident voice. "I take it you have rooms?"

"Yeah…" The man turned "Katie? Show t' gen'lemen t' rooms."

The young girl behind the bar, no older than fourteen, nodded, and showed us up the stairs. She motioned to the two rooms, passed me two keys and left me on the landing, with no information about food, hot water, extra blankets… I sighed, and entered one of the rooms, pulling Holmes in, and setting him down on the bed. Exhausted, he fell back onto the pillows, and I removed his shoes, and helped him out of his jacket, before lifting his legs up onto the bed, and pulling the covers over him. The room was freezing, with no fireplace, and was sparsely decorated. Holmes shivered and I went into the next room - my room - and pulled all the blankets off the bed, taking them into Holmes and putting them on top of him.

"Thank you, Watson." I heard a voice say, and I smiled.

"Sleep for as long as you want, my dear fellow."

Holmes nodded sleepily and drifted off into a deep sleep. I considered my own bed, not an attractive idea after the removal of all my blankets. I went over to the door and locked it, still not feeling completely safe. I sat on the armchair by Holmes' window, pulled my coat around my shoulders, and despite the relatively early hour, fell fast asleep.

(1) Postscript added 1897. The atmosphere in that carriage just under ten years ago reminds me inescapably of the atmosphere which affected my friend so horribly in the 'Devil's Foot' case. That is the only thing I can liken it to. There are dissimilarities, of course, but I have never felt anything like it since, until being subjected to the particular herb recently.


	6. Of Failed Attempts and Arguments

**Thank you for all the kind reviews! Please keep them coming! Also, see if you can see the reference to Granada's production of 'The Creeping Man' in this chapter (the one that always makes me laugh!)**

**Disclaimer - Yeah, I don't own ACD's characters.**

**Chapter 5**

27th October 1889, Morning

When I awoke, I had gained one of the scratchy blankets that I had laid over Holmes as he had been sleeping. My eyes still blurry with sleep, I rubbed them, and looked up, to see Holmes smoking his pipe and smiling at me. "Wha-Wha-What is the time?" I said, yawning as I did so.

"It is half past six in the morning, my dear fellow."

"But Holmes! I have been asleep for over twelve hours!"

"I too, I am afraid. I only awoke about a half-hour ago." I motioned at the blanket, and Holmes sighed "My dear fellow, after I rather selfishly took all the blankets yesterday, I awoke to find you as cold as ice. Your lips had began to turn blue. Unfortunately, it seems in both this and the other room, there are no fireplaces, so we shall have to make do."

"And how are you feeling?"

"Better, thank you, Watson."

"Still tired?"

Holmes eyed me, but then seemed to resign himself to my worried questions about his health and shrugged "I am perhaps still in some need of sleep…but for now we have work to do. Important work."

"Where are we going?"

"To the house. I intend to gain entry. See the room from which our poor victim ended his life. You will come with me?"

"Of course." I looked out of the window and shuddered.

Holmes noticed, and not for the first time, seemed to read my thoughts "Yes, my dear fellow. It does not get better, does it? Even in the light of dawn, such as it is." The village was still dark, apart from a vague lightening of the sky in the east. There were a few people milling about in the streets, but there still seemed no life in the village…no vitality. There were children, on their way to the fields, or school I guessed, but they walked hand-in-hand, two-by-two. I was reminded, inescapably of the attitude of the children we had encountered in that particular case that took our attention last Christmas…but these children…they seemed almost grey little ghosts themselves…

"Holmes…" I muttered "I do not like it…"

"I know." Holmes' voice was steady, but his hands…were they shaking? "I…have had…such…dreams…" I stared in abject surprise at my friend, who never displayed his weaknesses - not to me, not to anyone. I felt shame rush over me. I had been so tired yesterday. Had I abandoned him to face the ghosts of his nightmares alone? Did he call to me and despair when I did not answer? Holmes read the look on my face, and shook his head, his smile now gentle. "Do not fear, Watson." He changed the subject quickly, as if worried I should ask him what he dreamt, although I never would.

I stood, stretched and tried to straighten my clothes. We had not brought any additional clothing with us, I bringing only my toothbrush, shaving kit and a couple of notebooks and pens, and I sincerely doubted that we would be able to find a good tailor in this little place. I thought quickly of Winchester…but I realised that my means would not stretch to a new suit even if we did find a place.

Holmes however, was, as usual, prepared for anything. "We will go to the Post Office today, and ask Inspector Lestrade to bring us some spare clothing when he next comes down. I am sure the irreplaceable Mrs Hudson will not mind packing us a couple of carpet bags with the essentials. But now, my dear fellow, we must continue in our case."

"Breakfast, Holmes?"

"Watson, do you think of nothing but your stomach?"

"No, I also think about how going without food is affecting you. Holmes, you must have something to eat!"

"Later, later! For now, my mind must be wholly devoted to the case in hand. We will, however, find you something to eat. That is, of course, if we are not burned for witchcraft in the process…"

"Ah, you remember then, the looks that we were being subjected to?"

"I must say, Watson, the last time I was looked at like that was when I was posing as a gorilla at London Zoo." This caught me completely by surprise and I stared at him, wondering if he was telling me the truth. My mind began to fill with images of Holmes in a completely unrealistic Gorilla costume, and I grinned.

"I never know, Holmes, whether you are telling me the truth or not…"

"I assure you Watson, I am being completely truthful." Holmes' face was straight, but I did notice a twinkle in his eyes. I shook my head, and we left the room and descended the stairs. Coming into the main bar, we were met by the stares of every man in there - although it did strike me as rather odd that at quarter to seven in the morning, the bar should be open.

"Good morning!" said Holmes, cheerfully, to the barman "We were wondering whether we might be able to get some breakfast?"

The barman eyed us for a minute, then shrugged. "Yer…suppose…Katie!" The little girl appeared "Ge' 'em sommat t' ea'"

We sat in silence at a table, still being eyed rather suspiciously and were handed two plates of food by the little girl. Both contained a slab of greying bread, and a rather fragrant hunk of cheese. I exchanged glances with Holmes, who looked slightly amused, and proceeded to eat my 'breakfast'. When I had finished, our plates were cleared, the barman looking unhappily at the food still left on my friend's plate (all of it, in fact), and muttering about 'waste' and 'will have to eat it myself now' - although from a glance at the man's rather rotund figure, I supposed that he had been doing rather a lot of that.

"Excuse me, barman" said Holmes, his voice ringing out across the bar. The man turned and looked at my friend - a challenge, was it not? "I do not suppose you could tell me where I can find the police station."

"Dow' t' road…nex' t' yon schoolhouse."

"Thank you. If you would not mind, we will be wanting the rooms for a couple more nights - some additional blankets might be desirable."

The man shrugged, and went back to lean on his bar, the occupants of the pub still watching us closely. "Come on, Holmes," I whispered "I feel like I am being eyed up for dinner. Let us get out of here."

"To the bumbling local policeman then."

We left the pub, walking down the road to the small police office that sat between one of the little shops and the small schoolhouse. The shop seemed to do rather a good line in cigarettes, and I went to replenish my supplies, as well as buy Holmes some passable tobacco, whilst he went next door to find a policeman. After being stared at for a good long time by the grotesque looking old woman behind the counter, I emerged, to be joined shortly after by Holmes. To say that looked agitated was rather an understatement, and I asked him what was troubling him "By heavens, Watson! I know this is rather a small village and time does not pass here like it does in London, but we are only fifteen miles from Winchester!"

"Holmes, what has happened?"

"Can you believe that there is no police officer on duty until noon?"

"Well, I suppose…it is rather a small village…"

"And a few days ago, there was a suspicious death. There should be someone on duty!"

"I thought you called them 'bumbling local police officers'."

"Yes…but unfortunately in order to gain entrance to the house without being arrested for forced entry, we need a warrant or some such from a police officer."

"Then…"

"There is nothing for it, Watson. We shall have to try and find a way into the place on our own."

"But Holmes! I have no great wish to spend the next few days in a squalid prison cell here. And, you are recovering from an extreme shock to your nervous system."

"I know the limits of my own body…"

"No, you do not, and that is the problem."

"If you would rather go back to London, you may, and I will go on my own."

I shook my head, despairing of him, but realising that he needed me to keep an eye on him "Oh, very well. Come along then, before I change my mind."

Holmes grinned and patted me on the shoulder, and we marched off toward the castle. I for myself, was quite pleased that we were not walking around at mid-morning, as we would have probably been treated like we were the circus come to town if we did. We reached the great lion guarded gates of Lionsmere House, and walked up the path to the house. The driveway of the house was shrouded in black trees, which blotted out any light or sunshine, and left the foliage with a 'dead' look. There was iron fencing separating the forest and the drive, which was painted grey, and was shaped into patterns. A couple of times a skull or a hand appeared, moulded into the fencing, and I shuddered, the air suddenly even colder than it had been. We continued up the driveway until we reached the house. It was not enormous, but did incorporate the high medieval keep, castle-like battlements, and a moat flowing across the front of the house, to be crossed by a bridge. But this was as far as the castle came to the Romantic stories of King Arthur at Camelot.

The moat was full of black water that looked almost solid to the naked eye. The walls of the castle were dark grey, and I could fully imagine why a person might commit suicide or go insane in a place like this. The House was, in short, terrifying. "This way, Watson…" Holmes said, quietly, and I followed him, across the bridge. Holmes tried his weight on the front door, then stepped back in some surprise "It is locked fast, Watson…like the door and the frame are one. Completely sealed." He tried his lock-picks, but the result was the same. For the first time since I had known him, he was unable to open the door.

For five or six hours after this we continued, skirting the edge of the castle, finding doors, and trying to open them, but to no avail. Every door seemed like it had been glued shut. At noon, we stopped and whilst I went to buy some lunch (which I guessed Holmes would not eat), he went to see if the policeman was on duty.

Ten minutes later, he came storming out in a terrible temper. "What on earth…" I started.

"The blasted man does not have the keys! And he had the impudence to suggest that I was an impostor and not Sherlock Holmes at all!" I tried my hardest to calm him down, but he would not be mollified "He also warned me that if we tried to gain entry to the house we would be arrested!"

"Oh dear," I said sympathetically. "What are we to do now?"

"We," Holmes said "Are going to go back to the house, of course! I am not going to be intimidated by a young upstart of a policeman who thinks he can order me around!"

"But Holmes!"

"No! Come, Watson, we will go!" And so we did. We spent the rest of the rather grey day trying to break into the castle, which if it had been around in the medieval period would never have been breached by any evil force. Of course, if the owner had decided to go out on a hunt or some such, he would have returned to find himself locked out and his castle impenetrable, but that is neither here nor there. The bottom line was that after around twelve hours of trying to break into the stupid thing, whether it had been with lock-picks, trying to climb up to the windows or sheer brute force, we came away with nothing, apart from cut fingers, large bruises, bad backs and aching shoulders. And Holmes was in an absolutely foul mood.

We walked back to the pub, tired and defeated, and were met by a scowl from our new land-lord and a plate of something rather questionable which was probably stew, but may have been something's innards for all I knew. We sat in silence, me eating, Holmes fuming with his pipe between his clenched teeth. Holmes looked absolutely terrible. It was like the sleep he had had this morning had not helped him at all. His skin was pale, his eyes were red, and he looked like he had been punched in both eyes, such were the purple marks under both sockets. I knew that he was angry, but he had to eat. He was near to a complete collapse if he did not "Holmes…" I said, softly.

He fixed me with a hard stare, the affection that was usually in his voice when he addressed me completely gone. "What?"

Years ago, when we had first started to live and work together, I would have shrunk away at this point, but no more. "Holmes, I know you are upset and angry, but you will be no good to anyone without some food in you. Please, old man. At least have a little?"

Holmes growled "I want nothing, Doctor."

His addressing me by my title, and the voice in which he did it, hard and threatening, did not stop me "Please, Holmes. I will get you whatever takes your fancy…biscuits, cake, anything…but you have to eat!"

"NO!" Holmes' voice cut through the air like a whip. Everyone in the pub turned around to stare at him.

I lowered my voice "Please. You are making an exhibition of yourself. Let us talk upstairs. Or at least not here."

Holmes looked around angrily, grabbed my arm rather too forcefully (I knew that there would be bruises there in the morning), and hauled me out of the room. He dragged me up the stairs to the landing between my room and his.

"Holmes!" I shouted "For heaven's sake, control yourself. You are acting like a child!"

"A child am I?" Holmes' voice rose again "Well perhaps, Doctor, you would prefer to go back to London."

"HOLMES!" The anger was stirring in me, and I felt it bubble to the surface. Anger at his flippancy over the attack yesterday, his refusal to eat or sleep, his blasted stubbornness over that stupid castle, which had caused the wound in my leg to burn, and the scar on my left hand (which I had received the previous Christmas) to smart. "Will you not see sense? You have to eat!"

"You have no right to tell me what to do!"

"I have every right. I am your friend, your biographer and, when you let me be, your Doctor."

Holmes turned his back to me, clenched his hand into a fist, and banged on the door, hard, like he would have liked it to be me. When he turned, his visage was transformed into one of complete, unlimited and unmitigated anger "I will not have you, with your small mind telling me what to do. Go back to London and leave me alone! You cannot tell me what to do - and why would I listen to you? You are not Mycroft!"

I stared at him, then turned and entered my room, slamming the door behind me. Blast the man! Blast him! I exhaled deeply a couple of times and then sat heavily on my bed, my head in my hands. He had never spoken to me like that before, not really. I knew he was irritated, and I knew that his body was calling out for food, which he would not give it, and that he was in an awful mood because of that. I sighed. I also knew what had hit me so bad. I had thought, indeed, I had hoped, that his regard for me was the same as it was for Mycroft, that of a brother. I know that after the death of my own brother years before, I had come to think of Holmes as more than a friend, and that he had taken the place that the death of my poor brother had left vacant. I closed my eyes, and tried to calm myself.


	7. The Past returns to Haunt the Present

**Awww, poor Watson! Holmes is being absolutely awful to him, isn't he? I mean, there's no excuse for that is there? **

**Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or any of ACD's characters. (Especially when one particular detective is in a very bad mood).**

**Chapter 6**

I sat on the bed, feeling absolutely wretched. Across the hall, I heard Holmes stamping to his room, before slamming the door behind him. For ten minutes I brooded. Over the years, I had borne a lot - his frequent bad moods; his strange, often inconvenient habits; his terrible chemical experiments all hours of the day and night and his frequent drug use, despite my best efforts to stop him. Blast him! One day he would push me too far! And perhaps today was that day. I stood, walked swiftly over to where I had deposited my small valise and extracted my toothbrush and shaving kit from the washstand. Shoving them into my bag, and not caring when my razor caught on one of the pages of the notebook I had brought up from London and ripped it, I pulled my coat and hat off the back of the door, put them on, donned my gloves and opened my bedroom door.

I walked out onto the landing, and pulled the door closed with a bang. I waited for a moment, and felt a rush of anger as Holmes did not even come to the door to see what was happening. I walked past his bedroom door, and banged on it. "Holmes!" I yelled "I have decided to take your advice. I am going back to London. You have made it abundantly clear that you can do without me. If you want to starve yourself to death, you are free to do so to your heart's content." I paused, expecting an answer. "Holmes? Do you hear me? I am going home!"

"Go, Watson!" Holmes' voice was harsh, but did I imagine a note of panic in his voice?

"So that is it, is it? You will not even come and bid me farewell?"

"For heaven's sake, Watson!"

"I expected better at your hands, Holmes."

"Go. Now." No, it was not my imagination. Holmes' voice was growing hoarser, tenser. His voice betrayed that he…feared something. It of course could be that he feared my leaving but…

"Holmes?" All the anger had gone from my voice, and I dropped my valise on the floor. "Holmes? Are you quite alright in there?"

"Watson!" His voice was panicked, unsteady. "Do not open this door!"

I stood for a moment, undecided. Then, taking a deep breath, and withdrawing my revolver from my pocket, I opened the door and stepped into the room. What I saw there paralysed me, filling me with a deep dread, and an awful sense of familiarity.

Holmes was in just his shirt sleeves and trousers, having divested himself of his jacket and waistcoat. He had obviously been in a temper, as he had thrown his clothing across the room. He now sat rigid on his bed, pressed against the headboard, as far away as possible from the thing that was on his bed, looking at Holmes with murderous intentions. The dreadful creature that had frozen both myself and my friend was none other than a large, and I knew, very deadly swamp adder - the same breed of snake that had been the instrument of murder and attempted murder in the case which I christened 'The Speckled Band'.

The snake was hissing angrily, my entry into the room rousing 'its snakish temper' and had pulled back, ready to strike at my friend. I aimed my revolver, but was stopped by a cry of "No!". I looked from snake to friend, and understood. If I had missed (which was entirely likely the way my hands were shaking), the snake would have launched itself at Holmes. For now, it sat, ready to strike the next time my friend moved.

I scanned the room, hoping to see something with which to incapacitate it. Then, looking to one side of me, I saw Holmes' wash-basin on it's stand. Without even drawing breath, I picked it up, turned it over, and planted it over the snake so that it was trapped. I then pulled a book off the bedside chest, and put it on top of the basin, to ensure that the snake would not escape. It hissed, angrily, but seemed mollified by the dark, and became silent.

The silence was absolute, as both Holmes and I were too shocked to move or speak. We both just stared at the basin, not believing that the events of the last five minutes had occurred. I came to my senses first, and looked over to my friend, to see that he had grown deathly pale, was breathing so fast he was almost hyperventilating, and was drenched in sweat. Moving over to the bed, I offered him my hand, and he took it, his eyes still fixed on the basin. Gradually, I pulled him off of his bed, and we moved towards the door. "Good Lord, Watson…" Holmes said quietly, as we reached it "Whatever are we going to do with that snake?"

The question took me so off-guard that I giggled, and before long we were both roaring in laughter, despite the fact we were standing in a room with one of the world's most venomous snakes under a water-basin. I can only describe our actions as a release of tension - from being almost suffocated to almost being bitten by a snake, our new case had not been uneventful. After a while, I managed to calm myself, and said "Actually, old man, what are we going to do?"

Holmes shook his head, and I felt him shudder against me, as I was still holding onto his arm. It seemed that the shock of the situation was dawning on Holmes. I opened the bedroom door, helped him across the landing, and deposited him into my bedroom. Going back into Holmes' room, I removed all he had brought with him (like me, not much - his toothbrush and shaving kit, a book and a couple of other effects) from his bag, and placed them outside the room. I then left the bag open on the bed, removed the basin, and left the room, like the very devil was behind me hoping that, as I had heard, snakes would slither into the nearest dark space and go to sleep. We would see in the morning if I had remembered correctly.

I gathered Holmes' things into my arms, and entered my room. My friend sat on the bed, looking rather worse for wear. He looked up as I entered and studied the armful of belongings I had brought with me. "Those are mine?" He stated the obvious, and I took this to mean that he was still in a state of utter shock.

"Yes. I am afraid that you will not be able to reclaim your bag again…although it may provide rather a shock if anyone decides to mock you."

"The snake is in the bag?"

"Hopefully."

Holmes looked a bit dazed "Very good."

"My dear man, what happened?"

"I entered the room in rather a temper…er…and…sort of collapsed on to the bed to find that I had a rather unpleasant bed-fellow. In fact, I believe I may have enflamed it by sitting on it or kicking it. I then retreated as far up the bed as I could go…"

"Oh, my dear fellow." I stood. "Sit here, and stay. I will be back in a few minutes." It wrenched my heart to ignore the pleading look on Holmes' face, but this was important. I run down the stairs to the bar, paid for a couple of glasses of brandy, and a plate of food (that looked for all the world like a re-warmed plate of the 'stew' I had eaten earlier). I then took to the stairs again, and rushed back to my bedroom, and Holmes' side. When I entered, he was sitting on the bed, and seemed to have recovered himself a little. I passed him a glass of brandy, and we both gulped it down in a few seconds, which proved to revive us a little. After this, it was necessary for me to assume my most stern voice "Now, Holmes. After what happened earlier, you are going to take this opportunity to eat all of this, or God help me, I will force it down you myself. Do you understand me?"

Holmes glanced at me, saw the steel in my eyes, and nodded meekly, picking up a knife and fork and setting to work on the plate that I gave him. He must have truly been hungry, because he ate the food in about a minute.

"Are you done, Holmes?" I asked, in the tone of voice that a father may ask a difficult child "Would you like more?" Holmes shook his head. "Alright."

We sat in silence for a moment, before Holmes turned to me "I owe you an apology, Watson."

I chuckled "I see that the food has done you good."

"Watson, I am trying to apologise. You know that I am not very good at this sort of thing."

I smiled, glad that he was making the effort, and nodded "Very well. I shall be silent."

"I have been feeling rather…out-of-sorts all day. I suppose I am still recovering the affects of that…chemical."

"It is only to be expected."

"I should not have taken my frustrations out on you, my dear friend. I lost control of my emotions and that reflected on you. I am so sorry. My dear fellow." He noticed my packed bag, and looked at me questioningly and a little fearfully, "You are not…leaving?"

"No," I said firmly "Not now I know the danger you are in. Now I shall stay to the very end."

"Were you going to go?"

I decided that lying was probably not the best course to take, "Yes. I was."

Holmes shook his head "and it would have been my fault. You were trying to help me, and I was terrible to you."

I smiled. "I am used to it…"

"You should not have to be…"

"I do not mean just you. In my profession I often encounter people who do not want help. It is part of the life I have chosen."

"But you should not have to encounter it from me."

"Holmes. I accept your apology."

He smiled, shook his head and patted me on the shoulder "I do believe I have never done anything to deserve your friendship."

"Nonsense, Holmes." I changed the subject with some rapidity "It seems then, that we are being followed…"

"By someone who knows our cases." I grinned at the way he called them 'our cases', and he smiled at me quickly before continuing "Someone who knows a lot about us, and who is desperate enough not to fear capture."

"I would suggest that we both share this room tonight, then."

"Indeed, but I insist you take the bed. I shall have the floor and be quite comfortable."

"But Holmes…"

"My dear fellow, you spent a thoroughly uncomfortable night last night on a under-stuffed armchair next to a draft, and with only one blanket. You have taken them back, I assume?" I nodded. "Very well." Holmes lowered himself to the floor, and curled up, like a cat on a carpet. I threw him down a pillow and a sheet, before making myself as comfortable as possible in the rather lumpy bed.

"I say, Holmes." I said.

"Hmmm?" Holmes answered sleepily.

"I do hope if Lestrade comes tomorrow he will bring us some more clothes."

"I did send a telegram asking him to…"

We lapsed into silence, and drifting in and out of sleep.

"Watson?"

"Yes, Holmes?"

"You do realise that I was lying?"

"When, old man?"

"When I said words to the effect that I do not hold you in the same esteem as I do Mycroft…you do know that…well…I do?" Holmes finished rather limply.

In the darkness of the room, I smiled "Yes, I do."

"Er…well…good…"

"Sleep now, Holmes."

"Yes, Doctor." Earlier when he had used my title, it had been out of anger. This time, it sounded like a term of endearment, as he said it softly and fondly.

"Goodnight, Holmes."

"Goodnight, my dear Watson."

Another silence.

"Watson…?"

"Oh, for heavens sake, Holmes, you are as bad as a small child. What is it now?" I could not keep the amusement out of my voice, however.

"In all seriousness, Watson - whatever are we going to do with that snake?"

"Well Holmes, heaven knows what was in that stew, but if we kill it, our hosts downstairs might be able to pass it off as some sort of game meat."


	8. The Case Progresses

**The swamp adder returns! Frisky little things, aren't they? I myself have an extreme phobia of snakes (apart from boas and pythons strangely) so I admire Watson greatly for keeping his cool. I would have been out of there in ten seconds flat!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's concepts, ideas or characters. I do, however own Lionsmere. **

**Chapter 7**

28th October 1889, Morning

I slept until sunrise, coming to myself pleasantly as the sun shone through my window. I yawned and for a moment bathed in the happiness of a beautiful, sunny day. Then I remembered our location - the haunted and oppressive village of Lionsmere. I stretched, and got myself out of bed, walking over to the window to view the village. Despite the sunshine, there was an extreme feeling of dullness about the place, as people went about their daily business, not talking or laughing or exchanging greetings, but just walking around the place mute. I stood and looked for a while, and then turned away, wishing on everything I owned that we were back in Baker Street.

Straightening my clothes for perhaps the tenth time since I had awoken, I pulled my jacket on, feeling awfully scruffy. I looked over at Holmes. He lay, wrapped in his jacket, coat and sheet, on the floor, his pillow strewn to the other side of the room. In sleep, he looked almost peaceful, and I decided to leave him in the sweet land of Nod, as I knew as well as anyone that he needed the rest.

On the landing, I suddenly remembered the rather unpleasant job that I would have to do. The disposal of the snake. As badly as we had been treated in that tavern, I had no wish for the little girl or our landlord to become a victim of the snake's anger. I opened the door, drawing out the revolver from my pocket, and entered the room quietly, all the time ready for the feel of fangs on some part of my body, or the sight of a striking snake heading in my direction. Cautiously, I walked towards the bed, plucking up Holmes' cane from the floor as I did so. When I was within an arm's reach of the bed, I stooped, and looked into the bag.

To my immense relief, the snake was curled up inside, it's temper cooled by the darkness and warmth of the bag. Using the cane, I managed to manoeuvre the bag shut and then locked the clasp. Thank heavens. It was done. Now, how to dispose of it? Of course, the simple explanation would be to kill it, but perhaps someone would want it? The thought made me laugh, and I decided that perhaps the police would be the best people to handle this.

There was a knock at the door, and I believed myself psychic. Lestrade stood there, his face flushed, carrying two huge cases. "Dr Watson! I am not your personal packhorse!"

"My goodness Lestrade, what is all this?"

"Your landlady seemed to believe that you would need all this. I called round to Baker Street this morning expecting to find two small valises, and instead came face to face with these two monstrosities!"

"Oh, my dear fellow!"

Lestrade dropped the cases to the floor, and I picked both up to sit by the side of the bed. "What is that?" asked Lestrade. I looked to one side and realised that the valise containing our friend from last night was moving. He was obviously making himself comfortable.

I picked up the bag and passed it to him "Here Lestrade. Have a snake."

Lestrade almost dropped the bag. He stared at it, then me in horror "Have a what?"

"A snake."

"There is a snake in this bag?"

"That is correct."

Lestrade paused and then gulped "Do you and Mr Holmes usually take snakes with you on cases?"

"We did not bring this one. It found us."

The Inspector seemed a little dazed and put the bag down at the corner of the room, murmuring something about giving it to PC Cartwright to deal with. He turned to me "Well, Doctor…" staring at the bag again as the snake moved inside, he lost his train of thought. I waited patiently whilst he remembered himself. "How is the case coming?"

I paused "So far, Holmes and I have escaped two assassination attempts. The second was that snake. We tried to get into Lionsmere House yesterday, but were unable to."

Lestrade glanced at me, his look unreadable. "You have discovered nothing then?"

"We have been a little busy, Inspector," I glanced at the valise.

"And why did you not go to the police station to retrieve the keys?"

"The village policeman would not give them to us."

"He was instructed to give them to you and Mr Holmes."

"He believed Mr Holmes to be an impostor."

"Stupid young idiot," murmured Lestrade.

"Yes, he did seem a bit over zealous."

"But surely," said Lestrade, the challenge in his voice returning "Mr Holmes could gain entry. His lock-picking skills are, shall we say, rather infamous at the Yard."

I paused "Mr Holmes was not himself yesterday. The first assassination attempt rather sapped his energy. And anyway, the doors to that house were sealed shut fast."

"They were only locked, not sealed."

"I tell you Inspector, it was like the door and the frame were one."

"It was a perfectly ordinary lock. Mr Holmes once boasted he could open anything!" Lestrade's voice rose.

My own voice also raised to match his "Mr Holmes was unwell. And those locks were impossible."

"It seems that Holmes is rather losing his touch."

"How dare you!"

"Where is the great man today, anyway?" Lestrade sneered.

"_Mr _Holmes is still asleep. He is recovering from shock and extreme nervous exhaustion. He needs to rest."

There was a cry of laughter, and I looked over to the open door, where Holmes stood framed in the doorway. Unlike myself, he had somehow managed to be immaculately turned out. He was looking much better, his eyes no longer red, and he stood nonchalantly smoking a cigarette. "My dear Watson, I do believe your dulcet tones are at this moment scaring small children in Outer Mongolia. And Lestrade! Please, calm yourself! Your face has turned a rather unnatural colour. As the Doctor will tell you, too much stress will cause a coronary."

"All the time you are around," Lestrade muttered under his breath "I grow steadily closer and closer to the grave everyday." A small smile tugged at Holmes' lips.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed "You should be asleep. You are recovering…"

"Doctor. I am fine. I promise you, absolutely fine. In fact, after we have cleared this little misunderstanding up, I think I will indulge in some of our Landlord's delectable stale bread and mouldy cheese for breakfast." He walked to stand next to me, facing Lestrade, and placed a hand on my shoulder "Thank you, Watson," he murmured. "Now, Lestrade" he turned to the man "I do hope you have a good reason for disturbing my slumbers."

"Well, I brought you your clothes…"

"And very kind of you too."

"And I wanted news."

"Of the case? I know very little, as I am sure Watson told you, we were unable to gain entry into the house yesterday. I do however, have some suspicions."

"Go on…" Lestrade said, intrigued. I looked at Holmes with curiosity too, for he had not shared his suspicions with me.

"I do believe that the perpetrator of this crime is, in fact, a woman."

"A woman?" Lestrade's voice was incredulous, as if he could not believe what he was hearing.

"A woman. In fact, the woman who went missing ten years ago."

"But…she is dead!"

"No, I do not believe she is. A body was never found. I believe the woman disappeared. Perhaps into the house. There are, as you know, no blueprints of the House. Do you remember the name of the woman, Lestrade?"

"No, but I could find out."

"At this precise moment, it is of no matter. Anyway, I will get an answer to that question no doubt quite soon."

Lestrade nodded, looked as though he was trying to remember something, and then gave up his attempts.

"What are we going to do, Holmes?" I asked.

"Now that the Inspector has arrived, I see no difficulty in extracting the key from that rather eager young gentleman at the police station. You agree, Lestrade?"

"Of course. I will come with you."

"Good. But…if you please, no one else. There is danger enough for the three of us."

"Very well."

"Shall we go to breakfast?" I asked, and Holmes grinned at me.

"Very well."

The three of us descended the stairs, and made our way into the tavern. Once there, we were served with the usual bread and cheese (to my pleasure, Holmes was as good as his word and cleared his plate), and then Holmes and I went to change. After I had lugged my case into my room, washed and dressed, I knocked on Holmes' door, and at his call, walked in. Holmes was sitting on his bed, putting his lock-picks and a revolver into his coat pocket. "You think you need that?" I asked.

"I am willing to wager on it." I sighed, and Holmes said "My dear fellow, where did you deposit the snake?"

I pointed at the valise "It is in there. Lestrade is going to give it to our friend at the police station to dispose of." A wicked light came into Holmes' eye. "Holmes…" I said, warningly "That is a poisonous snake. It is not a toy."

Holmes sighed exasperated and then smiled "You are probably right. You have your revolver?" I tapped my coat pocket. "Good. Then come," he rose "I believe that we are ready to descend into the den of lions."

We met Lestrade in the tavern, Holmes passing him the valise containing the snake, and we made our way down the road to the Police Station. The Constable was a young man, no older than twenty or twenty one, with dark brown hair, a acne ridden complexion and a grumpy-looking countenance. As soon as the Inspector entered though, the boy straightened his back, and tried a silly little salute which almost knocked his hat off "Inspector, sir!"

"Oh, do stop that, Cartwright!" said Lestrade, his voice annoyed "You are not in the army!" _You would not be able to last in the army_, I thought, but remained quiet. "Now, this is Mr Holmes and Dr Watson. You see them? Good. You are going to obey every word they say as if they were me. Do you understand? And this…" he passed the bag over the counter "Contains a deadly snake. No, do not open it, you stupid boy! And do not drop it! I do not care what you do with it! Just do not release it." Lestrade let out a deep sigh, and turned to Holmes and I "Good lord, what we have to put up with! You would not think that he is probably one of the cleverest people in this village, would you?"

Holmes let out a shout of laughter, and we all left the police station, leaving the boy at the counter staring rather dubiously at the bag. "Well, Inspector" said Holmes, his face excited, his voice happy "Shall we get on with it? Onwards and upwards, as they say?" And he fair ran down the road.

Lestrade and I looked after him at his retreating back "Good Lord, Doctor, I thought you said he was ill?"

"I know…"

"Well, If I can catch what ails him, I will be a very happy man."

"We had better hurry, Inspector, before he returns to hurry us up."

Lestrade and I exchanged glances, and for some reason laughed, before setting off after Holmes.


	9. Of the Monster in the Mist

**Thank you everyone for the lovely reviews - they are very greatly appreciated. **

**Disclaimer - Yep, I do not own Holmes, Watson, Lestrade or any other Doyle-related concepts. **

**Chapter 8**

I have to admit that all the time I was hurrying down that road with Lestrade, following in Holmes' footsteps as he strode on metres ahead, I felt somewhat lightened in my mood. After all, I thought, it was not raining, the sky was blue, and Lionsmere did not look too intimidating this morning. While it was true, of course, that we were still being viewed with a certain amount of suspicion by the villagers, it did look like they were at least used to us, and we were not going to be attacked by a lynch mob and burned as witches.

However, as is often the way, by the time we had reached the castle gates, and the great stone lions, the weather had turned. A large, threatening, dark cloud had settled over the sun, a mist had began to form and the castle and woods looked even more threatening now than they did yesterday. The three of us stood at the gates, and Lestrade shuddered "Good Lord, it is not a welcoming place, is it?"

"No," I answered, my heart sinking at the thought of having to go into the place. I had to pull myself together. For heaven's sake, it was only a house! "So, Holmes," I said, more confidently than I felt, "What is the plan of attack?"

Holmes looked down at me, and I realised in that moment just how perceptive he was. "Good man," he murmured and patted me on the forearm, just the once, out of view of Lestrade. He seemed to know that this place frightened me, but that I would have his back wherever he went, no matter how afraid I was. "So, Lestrade," Holmes said, his voice louder, his tone a challenge "Are you coming?"

Lestrade nodded, and the three of us entered the grounds of Lionsmere House. We started down the drive, and the mist seemed to swallow us up, rapidly making our path untraceable. I could see my companions, see about three metres in any direction, but not much else. It seemed that even the weather was against us, disorientating us. Holmes led the way, and I hoped to the high heaven that he was remembering our route correctly. As I remembered, there were a number of pathways heading off the main drive into deeper and darker parts of the forest. If we strayed onto one of those…

I pressed on after Holmes, always on the alert, always ready to fall to the ground, or pull out my revolver and fire. The place seemed to radiate bad feeling, and several times I noticed Lestrade put his hand into his pocket to assure him that his revolver was still in place. Oddly enough even Holmes seemed a little on edge, his eyes whipping from one edge of our misty field of vision to the other.

We continued, deeper into that God-forsaken place, deeper into the devilish mist that surrounded us. At last, I believed that I could see the dim outline of the keep of Lionsmere House. I breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank heavens for that…"

We were stopped however by a sound - a terrifying sound that I had heard only a few months before, and which I had prayed that I would never have to hear again. The sound ran though me like ice, and I stopped walking, frozen to the spot, as my friends were. For they had heard it before as well. For it was the howl of an enormous Hound.

"Dear Lord…" Holmes breathed, and spoke the words I had heard him use only months - or was it weeks? - before "It's coming."

I cannot describe to you, dear reader, the horror of the moments we stood there, frozen in the mist. The case of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' had been one which had tested our wits, courage, health, even our friendship to the very mettle, and we had returned to Baker Street two very tired and not altogether satisfied men. After the end of the case, Holmes had entered one of his moods whilst even I had become rather morose…the Hound of the Baskervilles alive and haunting my dreams. And here it was again - really alive, and really coming for us.

Footfalls - I heard them! Heading in our direction. The three of us stood in a circle, back to back, moving all the time, trying to cover the largest amount of territory - trying to see into the mist. Holmes spoke - his voice commanding and authoritative. "Watson, Lestrade…the Hound is dead. This is just an impostor…" But his voice held too much of a quake in it for us to be calmed by it.

We stood. Waited. Seemingly years passed. Then a growl. And the great Hound leapt out of the mist, straight at Lestrade. He shouted in surprise and fear, as the great beast sunk it's teeth into his leg, and started to drag him away from us. Holmes and I turned, our pistols lowered at the beast, but we both hesitated, knowing that, if we missed, we would be in very great danger of hitting Lestrade.

But the hesitation only lasted for a moment. At the same time, we both decided that to be mauled and savaged by a possibly rabid dog was worse than being shot, and we opened fire on the fiend. It did not whimper, but it's growls grew fiercer, and it hurled itself at Holmes. I continued to fire, as did he, and by the time it had landed on Holmes, it was dead.

I ran to Lestrade. He was pale, and had turned a rather greenish colour. His leg was covered in blood, and I ripped off my coat to staunch the flow of blood. Holmes, meanwhile had extracted himself from the tangled remains of the great beast, and was prodding it with his foot. "Remarkable," he murmured. For the beast could have been the Hound's twin. It was coal black, with evil eyes, and had been covered in phosphorus, just like the one we had encountered on Dartmoor. Holmes turned from the creature to the two of us. "Is there anything you need, Watson?"

Lestrade moaned, and I heard him mutter "A stiff drink…"

Holmes quirked a small smile, and I said "I cannot really move him safely any great distance until the bleeding has stopped. But perhaps," I motioned at the trunk of a tree "he would be more comfortable propped up against that…"

My friend nodded, and he and I took an arm each, and lifted Lestrade up gently, and deposited him a metre or two away, so that he sat with his back against an old oak tree. Holmes sat next to him, and I took my place by Lestrade's leg, doctoring as best I could under the circumstances.

"Doctor…" Lestrade muttered, and I turned to look at him "I believe your landlady packed your medical equipment into your suitcase."

If Mrs Hudson had been there at that very moment, I should have kissed her. I was not aware of a doctor in the village (or indeed of his level of competency) and with the right equipment back at the inn, I should be able to doctor Lestrade's wound well. There was a lot of blood, but the cuts did not seem to be very deep, or affect any major areas. Indeed, a few stitches, a blanket and a glass of brandy, and the Inspector should be able to sleep quite soundly.

After a while, the bleeding stopped and I turned to Holmes "I think we should get him to the tavern. I will be able to treat him there."

Holmes nodded, and we carried the little inspector down the path - luckily remembering the way - and out through the village. We continued onwards to the inn, and made our way upstairs. We deposited Lestrade onto Holmes' bed, and my friend went downstairs to see to hot water and towels. He returned, a little put out, a few minutes later, with luke-warm water and a couple of ancient looking blankets. Securing Holmes' help in ensuring that my work-place was well lit, I bathed and stitched the inspector's wounds, and then wrapped him in a blanket, and passed him a glass of brandy to warm him and steady his nerves. Although still in pain, he bore it well, and thanked me profusely for my ministrations. "Good heavens," he said "I thought my time was up…"

"It was rather a shock…" Holmes said.

"My dear man," I laughed lightly "You are a master of the understatement."

Holmes inclined his head in a mock bow, and said "You realised, of course, that the attack was another attempt on our lives?"

"You believe so, Mr Holmes?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course. Watson and I spent many hours in those grounds yesterday, and we saw no glimpse of that creature. It is obvious that it was set upon us by a person who somehow knew that we were in the grounds."

"Good Lord," said Lestrade. "You think this…I use the term lightly…lady is involved."

"Very much so. I just wish I knew who she was."

Lestrade suddenly let out a cry. Shocked, I turned to him, thinking him in pain, but instead, he stuck the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Of course! I cannot believe I forgot! It slipped my mind completely!"

Lestrade reached into his trouser pocket, and with some effort, withdrew a crumpled letter, addressed to 'Mr. S. Holmes, Lionsmere Police Station.' "When I arrived at Baker Street, there was a young lady at the house. She was apparently calling in on Mrs Hudson, and on her way to the Post office to post this letter. When she heard my name, she gave it to me."

Lestrade looked a little embarrassed at his lapse of memory, and I patted his shoulder encouragingly "Do not worry, old fellow…happens to the best of us at one point or another…"

Holmes had received the letter from Lestrade and opened it. He glanced over it once, and shoved it at me, a grin on his face "What is it, Holmes?"

"Read it! Read it, my dear Watson, and you shall see that we are smiled upon from on high."

I glanced at the letter. The hand was that of Meredith, her writing neat and spidery. It read: _Mr Holmes, Dr Watson - Further to the information I gave you earlier on Lionsmere and it's ghost story, I have been researching the housing records, as you asked, Mr Holmes. The name of the woman who went missing is held by the police to be Patricia Smith. As this was, most probably a pseudonym, I researched a little more (calling in a few favours and such - Oh, the joys of being the daughter of an Earl!). The woman known by the police as Miss Smith also went under the names Bella Quortor, Erica Montjoy and Helena Zavieros. I do not know whether these names mean anything to you, but I hope they can be of some use. Still researching - will send on more data if have time. Be careful. Yours, MT._ I looked at Holmes. "So…"

Holmes grinned, and looked from my face to that of Lestrade. "I know who Erica Montjoy is!"


	10. Nightmares

**Hi! Sorry it has been a bit longer than usual up-dating wise - unfortunately I have just started a work experience placement, so it's a bit manic. But here is the next chapter!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters, ideas or concepts.**

**Chapter 9**

"Well?" The question was Lestrade's, but I have to admit, I heartily echoed it. Who was this woman? Why was she so intent on our ruination? Lestrade continued "Come, now, Mr Holmes. I know that you like to leave us in suspense, but I have just been attacked by what I thought, for the first few minutes of the ordeal, was a nightmare long dead. I demand an answer!"

Holmes looked in some surprise at Lestrade, not used to outbursts like this from the Inspector. "I say, Lestrade…" said Holmes "You should be attacked more often. It really does seem to be the making of you."

I grabbed Holmes' arm "For heavens sake man! Tell us who she is!"

Holmes looked from me to Lestrade and said "If I tell you this, your lives will be in as much danger as mine has been for the past few days…"

"Any danger there is we will face together…" I said, quietly.

Holmes' face was a odd picture of surprise, and gratitude. He nodded, smiled quickly at me, and began. "You remember that some time ago, I told both of you of a master criminal by the name of Professor Moriarty?"(1)

"He who is 'The Napoleon of Crime?'" I asked, my heart plummeting. "Surely…he could not be involved in this?"

"Not to a great extent. But I do think that he is rather the…motivation…or should that be the inspiration, for these crimes." Lestrade and I must have both looked completely mystified, because Holmes sighed. "Erica Montjoy is another of those individuals in the London Underworld who has the singular gift for directing the movements of the countries' most despicable criminals."

"But…a woman…" spluttered Lestrade.

"For heavens sake!" Holmes cried, his face transformed with frustration and annoyance "What does it matter her gender? A clever woman, with a cold heart is as dangerous as her male counterpart. Montjoy is cunning, intelligent and powerful. She was, for a while, the mistress and pupil of Moriarty, and has learnt from her master. She leads the largest and most brutal female crime syndicate in the world."

"A female crime syndicate?" I stared at Holmes. "How is it possible?"

"Montjoy is rich. Very rich. Her father was an American millionaire and crime lord. Her mother was the daughter of an Arab Sultan. She has connections, in every part of the criminal underworld. Her organisation is not as large as that of Moriarty, but that is due to the fact that she has a certain amount of exclusivity when choosing her employees. Montjoy is able to use her womanly virtues to get everything that she wants. Her spies are never suspected - their gender making them almost immune."

"You were on her trail?" I asked, hardly able to believe my ears.

"I was. Whilst somewhat studying Moriarty's methods, I also came up with this woman's name - after finding one of her employees, a poor young maid (from a more prosperous family than her career would suggest) dying from a knife wound inflicted by her mistress. She gave me the name, and an outline of the organisation that day, before she died. I have had an eye open from that day on."

I felt a rush of some emotion…anger?…over me. I was thoroughly tired of Holmes' attempts to protect me. What possible reason could he have from shielding this from me? "So…another thing you have kept from me…" I said, my voice harsh. Holmes turned, his features clouded with remorse, a pleading look on his face. I sighed, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Go on…" I murmured.

Holmes' features cleared and he continued. "Montjoy's 'employees' are all of good, wealthy stock - women who are so discontented that they are willing to pose as maids and governesses in order to bring their mistress information. Montjoy does also employ a certain number of men, but as hired roughs, nothing more."

"So this is nothing to do with the Professor?"

"I do not believe so. Montjoy is independent enough to work on her own."

"And her motive?"

Holmes paused, looked at Lestrade and then myself and murmured "At this moment I have no idea." His voice grew more confident "Of course, it is perfectly obvious that she wishes to kill me because I am on her trail…but of those she has driven to madness and suicide, I do not know."

"How do you think she knew? About the Hound, and the snake?"

"Her spies? That is the logical answer." Holmes grimaced "I do believe that we were being watched all the time in those cases, my old friend." He lit his pipe, and we sat in silence for a moment. "Of course," said Holmes "The only place for answers is that house."

"Very well," I said.

"No," Holmes' voice was dark, insistent "I am not taking you with me this time, Watson. You must stay here with Lestrade. It is too dangerous…And…" he muttered "I do not wish to risk your life."

I glanced at Lestrade, and then at Holmes. "Indeed, you are right. It is my life. And if I want to risk it following my dear friend into danger, than I most certainly will."

"Watson…"

"Mr Holmes" Lestrade interrupted "I will be fine. I would be far happier if the Doctor joined you, rather than stayed with me. You have become rather an asset to the force. I hate to thing what the lads back at the Yard would do to me, if I managed to lose you. Take the Doctor."

Holmes shook his head "You do not understand…the danger is too great."

"All the more reason for someone to come with you. I am coming, Holmes. Whether you like it or not. Lestrade will not lend you his derbies to chain me up, and that is the only way to stop me from coming."

Holmes sighed "Very well…let us go…"

I folded my arms. "No. We will go in the morning. Lestrade is still weak, and you could do with another nights rest. The only hurry is of your own making. We are going in the morning."

To my immense surprise, Holmes did not rant and rage at me, or try and run off. Instead, he looked me straight in the eye, nodded, and said "Very well, Doctor." I then realised that he was afraid…trying to put off this as long as possible…more for my sake, I thought, than his.

"Then we shall all get some rest, and you and I shall go out to the house tomorrow." I said, then added "Together."

Holmes smiled "As always, my dear fellow."

I nodded, and went to help Lestrade, who was to sleep in Holmes' bed, become more comfortable. He was still in some pain, and his bandages needed re-dressing so I did so, before giving him a dose of morphine - enough to dull the pain, and carry him off to sleep. After all, rest is one of the best forms of medicine. Holmes had already retreated to my room, so when I had finished attending to Lestrade, I joined him. I found him sitting on the floor, a telegram in his hands, Meredith's letter on one knee, and a pile of what looked like police case notes on the other. "Who is the telegram from?" I asked.

"Do you mind, Watson, if I keep it to myself for the moment?"

I sighed "It is your prerogative. But if you are just doing it to be theatrical, I warn you, I will be very put out." Holmes grinned at me, and I smiled back, before leaving the room to change. I returned in my nightshirt and dressing gown, to find Holmes enrobed but in the same position. "I swear, Holmes…you could make your fortune as a member of a quick change act." Holmes chuckled and stretched himself out onto the floor. "No Holmes…" I said, "You had to sleep on the floor last night. I insist you take the bed."

"Watson…"

"No debate, old man. Take it. I shall be perfectly fine on the floor."

Holmes sighed, but did not argue, "I know better than to challenge your tenacity, Watson. Very well. But I warn you, the floor is very hard…"

"I slept on worse in Afghanistan. I shall be fine."

Holmes shrugged, and we both settled down for the night.

_Tendrils of darkness reached for me, and I tried to pull back. They wrapped themselves around me, suffocating me, making it harder and harder to draw breath. The screaming started and I was frozen, petrified. All I could do was stand there, trying to discern something…anything in the great pitch darkness that enslaved me. Suddenly, a light shone, illuminating a spot not far from me. A figure in a black coat lay prostrate on the ground. Was he dead?_

_I could not move, but I knew who it was. Holmes. Was he breathing. No, he must be, because in that terrible, silent stillness, I heard him gasp, start to breathe, heavily. But he was alive! I looked about me, my eyes growing accustomed to the light. A gallery? There were certainly paintings of figures on the wall. But…did I just see one move?_

_No…that was impossible…but…there! One moved again. Unable to speak, unable to move for the cords of darkness wrapped around me, I stood. Waiting. But what for. Suddenly, the pictures turned into figures, and they all moved, converging on the same place, and I saw their faces. My blood ran cold as they headed towards Holmes, all wielding pistols. Holmes let out an almost animal-like scream…or was that me?…as they came towards him. They stepped into the light, and I saw them properly. Culverton Smith…Grimsby Roylott…John Clay…Stapleton…Rucastle…and more I did not recognise. _

_A terrible silence…and then…a combined explosion…as the guns went off all at once…all aimed at Holmes._

"_Holmes!" I yelled, finding my voice. "No…Holmes!"_

"Watson?" _It was his voice…but he was dead…_

"_Holmes! Please…no…"_

"Watson!" _The voice was stronger…more insistent._ "Watson. Wake up."

I sat up in bed, and almost head butted Holmes, who was leaning over me. He had hold on my shoulder and my hand. His face was paler than usual. "Holmes," I murmured, reaching out to touch his arm, checking that he was real.

Holmes' voice, when he spoke, was quiet, low and full of concern. "Oh heavens, Watson! I thought you were having some sort of seizure. Especially when you let out that scream…" Ah. I was me then.

"I am sorry, Holmes," I said, heartily ashamed of myself - both that I had awoken Holmes, and that my voice was still shaking.

"My dear fellow...You shouted my name…" Holmes looked upset. "Am I causing these nightmares?"

"No, old man. It is this blasted case. I…shall be glad when it is over."

"I know, dear fellow. It is this place…Lionsmere…as well as the criminal who is haunting it. It is…oppressive. I shall be glad to be gone."

I nodded and realised I still had his hand in a death grip, and released my hold on it. Holmes, however, did not remove his hand at that moment, and instead squeezed it once, before saying soothingly "Sleep now, Watson."

I nodded, and Holmes got up off his knees, and walked towards the bed. I wrapped my blanket around myself, and fell into a not entirely restful slumber.

* * *

(1) See 'The Valley of Fear'(set before the 'Final Problem', in which Watson describes Moriarty as 'the famous scientific criminal'.


	11. Lionsmere House

**OK, Sorry for the delay in updating again…work experience is taking up most of my time, but I am going to try and put a couple more chapters up over the weekend. **

**Disclaimer - All the characters used are from the stories of ACD, apart from Erica Montjoy, and any you do not recognise. Lionsmere also belongs to me.**

**Chapter 10**

October 29th 1889, Morning

I awoke to the sound of driving rain, and crashing thunder. It could not be a worse day. The wind was up, banging against the thin glass windows, and sending a chill about the place. I sat up, to see Holmes sitting on the bed, fully dressed, smoking his pipe and staring out of the window. Rivers of water streamed down the outside of the glass, and I did not relish setting foot outside. Holmes obviously could see my reflection in the glass, because he said quietly "Good Morning, Watson."

I was about to answer, when I remembered the night-time disturbance…remembered screaming in horror and fear and awakening him. I felt my face redden, and felt utterly ashamed of myself.

When I did not answer, Holmes turned, and his eyes softened for a moment, before saying "Watson?"

I looked up at him "Yes, Holmes?"

"You will not tell Lestrade of my…reaction…to the incident in the train?"

"Never."

"Good. Thank you, old friend." He smiled once at me, and his message was clear: _You will not tell anyone of my fears, and so I shall tell no one of yours_. I felt a rush of gratitude towards him, extracted some new clothing from my trunk, and went to change. As I made for the door, I reached out and squeezed his shoulder, just once, hoping that my actions would convey my thanks.

We breakfasted down in the bar, variety added to our breakfast by the inclusion of some rather greasy looking sausage and bacon. However, it was not sausage and bacon as we knew it, and I found myself longing for Mrs Hudson's breakfasts. Holmes and I wrestled the over-ripe, under-cooked meat down, and made our way upstairs. "Blazes, Holmes…" I muttered "I shall not be surprised if that last meal was the death of me…"

Holmes nodded "And what a selection of comestibles to have for your last meal…"

We made our way into Lestrade's (or rather Holmes') room, where we were told, on no uncertain terms that we were not to get ourselves killed or anything else, and that if we did, Scotland Yard would be in no way responsible. The Inspector did, however, take the time to tell us to be careful, and gave us all the bullets he had, just in case we might need them. We left him 'languishing' as Holmes put it, on the bed, and went to collect our supplies - revolver, small medical kit, pocket-book and pen for me, and a small set of lock-picks, revolver, magnifying glass and the houses' keys for Holmes - packed them into the pockets of our great-coats, added hats, scarves and other sundries, and made our way downstairs, through the village (in the pouring rain), and reached the gates of Lionsmere House.

Holmes stood there, hesitating for just one minute, looking into the unnaturally red eyes of one of the lions guarding the gate. "Are you sure you wish to come, Watson?" His voice was hesitant, tentative, and he did not meet my eyes.

I did not honour his question with a response. Instead, I walked past the lions, and started down the driveway, turning back when I had travelled five metres, and saying "Coming, Holmes?"

Holmes smiled quickly, and caught up with me, muttering under his breath "What would I do without my Boswell?"

I smiled "Well, you would probably…" I counted the options off on my fingers "Have been shot…several times, have been beaten to death, savaged by a dog, trapped in a burning building, been arrested…well, to put it mildly, Holmes, I do not think you would be in the best of health."

Holmes smiled, but fell silent, and I knew that the…ghosts?…surrounding Lionsmere House were getting to him. I had to keep him focused…but then again…I had to do the same for myself. As it was, I could think of little to say, and we continued, deathly silent, down the road to Lionsmere House, looming out of the trees in the distance. In this weather, the rain darkening the sky, and tendrils of lightening flashing behind it, the place truly looked terrifying.

We came to the break in the trees - to the place were the whole castle was visible, and I am a little ashamed to say that I shuddered. Holmes' face was a mask of control, and I could not see his eyes, but I suspected that he felt the same fear as I did. His joints seemed to stiffen as we approached the castle. The wind howled around us, and I jumped, fully expecting a rush of teeth and claws, but none came. The rain lashed us both, and I realised that if we did not get in soon, we would both catch pneumonia. "Holmes!" I yelled, leaning in, so that my voice was close to his ear, and he could hear over the thundering rain "We have to get inside!"

Holmes nodded, and we both made our way to the castle…battling against the driving wind…until we reached the great main door of the House. Holmes put the key in the lock. It would not turn. "The wrong keys?" I shouted.

"No," Holmes yelled back "It has been sealed!" Then he said "We shall have to find another way in…" We were about to leave, when the door suddenly creaked open, as if by itself.

We stood there, staring for a moment, and then Holmes took the first step, taking out his revolver, and stepping into the castle. I followed, and we both stood in the hall, which was lit by the light from outside. All of a sudden, there was a loud BANG!! as the door slammed shut, and all light was gone. Panic flowed over me, and I fumbled in my pockets for a match, but Holmes, his head clearer than mine, had already acted. He lit a match, and scanned the nearby walls and a side table. On it, sat a candelabra, complete with candles, which Holmes lit. He turned to me, coming closer so that the flames lit both of out faces "Are you alright, Watson?"

I nodded, feeling better for the light "Yes. I am alright, Holmes."

Holmes nodded, and said "Well, I suppose until the rain ceases, we should explore this place." His voice took on a serious note "Make sure you stay in the candlelight. If you want to stop, or see something interesting, tell me. Do not wander off by yourself."

I nodded, and Holmes turned from me. We walked together down the darkened corridor. As the light hit the walls, I saw old fashioned wallpaper, peeling and in shocking need of repair. There were pictures, photographs perhaps, but I could not see them properly for the glare of the candles. There were also weapons - blades, mostly - of all sizes, hanging on the walls and glinting menacingly in the candlelight. I was so busy looking at these, that I did not notice my friend stop, and walked straight into him. In front of us, leaning against a wall, was a tall, broad-set figure. My blood ran cold, and I took out my revolver "Reveal yourself, Sir." I said, my voice loud "Or I shall shoot!"

"Watson…" Holmes' voice was, for the first time that day, rather amused "That is a suit of armour." I blushed, and Holmes grinned "Oh, my dear fellow…you always seem to make me feel eminently better. I am forever in your debt."

I smiled, pulled myself together, and we continued. Oddly, despite the fact that the castle had been taken by a good many people since in the last ten years, it looked like it had not been lived in. _That is because_, I thought _No one has ever stayed long enough to make themselves at home._ I shuddered.

Holmes turned right, entering one of the rooms, which was obviously a sitting room or parlour. In the corner was a huge grand piano, oddly enough still complete with sheet music on the stand. Like some person had been playing it recently. Holmes noticed this too, and whispered "It is all wrong…" But, we continued. The walls were be-decked with empty frames, like someone had taken all the paintings out of them…apart from one, standing over by a bookcase…an old hag staring out…freezing the very blood. But then, the place was uncommonly cold. The chill seemed to flow through you, and I could tell that the feeling was not just from the soaking we had received outside.

I stared at the painting for a moment, but was roused by a hand on my shoulder. "Come, Watson." My friend seemed to overt his eyes from the portrait. We left the room, and Holmes picked a set of stairs for us to climb. We were half-way up when there was the sound of a single note played on the piano. We both stopped, me frozen with fear, Holmes looking as far down the stairs as he could see with curiosity. I started downstairs, but was stopped by the sound of "Do not investigate, Watson." I turned to meet his eyes "I have a feeling," he said, "that it would be safer for you and I to continue."

I nodded, and we walked up the stairs, and Holmes led up onto the landing. Once there, he picked a room, and walked into it. It was a large room - a child's room. Everything was perfectly tidy, the bed made and the curtains drawn, but I felt eyes upon me. Holmes lifted up the candles to illuminate the sides of the room. Standing there, their glass eyes gleaming in the light thrown off by the candles, were around a hundred porcelain dolls - each one perfect and each one staring in our direction. I have to admit that this made my breathing quicken. Dear heaven, what was this?

My friend too seemed not a little afraid. He walked forward, always keeping, I noticed an eye on me, and examined the dolls. I heard a gasp, and walked forward. The dolls were arranged in order of size, the big ones at back, the small at the front. The largest doll was around three feet tall, and could only just fit on the shelf. What had made Holmes gasp though was the fact that the doll was wielding a very large, very sharp, carving knife. The dolls around it were in pieces, decapitated, missing arms and legs, but still they stayed in the same position. "Holmes?" I said, too afraid to be embarrassed at the tremble in my voice "Can we please leave this room?"

"Yes, Watson." Holmes turned "I think that that would be a good idea."

He left the room, and I followed, my frightened mind imagining the dolls' eyes following us…

We walked down a corridor, and then another, my life and reason totally in Holmes' hands, as he seemed to know the direction that we should go in. I could begin to understand why a person might run mad in such a place. I was stopped by Holmes' abrupt halt in front of a door. "What is it?" I asked.

"This is it. The room from which Phelps leapt from."

"Are we to enter?"

"Yes."

"I am right behind you, Holmes." I said, steeling myself.

Holmes nodded, and put his hand to the door handle. It opened easily, and we entered. The candlelight immediately illuminated parts of the room, and I realised that I knew where we were. The gallery.

"Holmes." I said, my voice cutting through the silence "Holmes!"

He turned, his face full of concern "What is it, my dear fellow."

"The gallery…it was in my nightmare! Please, Holmes, there is something not right here. Please…let us go…"

Holmes walked towards me, and faced me, placing a hand on my shoulder "I will always follow your instincts, old friend. Let us leave this room."

"Thank you," I muttered, sincerely hoping my fear had not made Holmes think any the less of me. We both turned, and started to walk to the double door we had entered to get into this place. All of a sudden, the door slammed shut, and the rush of air blew the candles out. We were trapped.


	12. A Real Terror

**Arghh! Scary Cliff-hanger…and scary dolls (my friend used to have a room-full when I was about thirteen, and when I slept round there, I kept thinking they were looking at me - I reckon I am scarred for life!)**

**This is going to be just a short chapter - hopefully I will have a longer one up tomorrow…**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters, concepts or ideas. **

**Chapter 11**

We stood there is silence for a moment, both of us glued to the spot. I tried to speak, but no sound came out of my mouth, so I just stood there, mouth open. The darkness was complete. The windows had been boarded up years before. I felt my breathing quicken, as flashes of that terrible dream came back to me - the scream, the shot…

My mind, jumbled and confused, fixed on the one thing that I was certain of. The one thing in this situation that I had some confidence in… I fumbled in the darkness, until I found Holmes' arm, and I squeezed it. A hand clasped over mine, and Holmes' voice said soothingly, "Easy, Watson, easy. It is alright."

I nodded, then realising he could not see me, muttered "Yes…"

Still we stood, the blackness engulfing us. I felt my body stiffen, felt the fear rising up in me, and was certain that if something…anything…did not happen soon, I would completely lose my composure.

All of a sudden, there was light. But not warm, comforting light…cold, cruel, bright light, that shone in our eyes, and then dimmed, just a little, so that we could see each other. Holmes was his old, composed self, although he did look a little paler. "Watson…" he murmured "Are you alright?"

I nodded, and realised, much to my disgust, that I was shaking. I removed my hands from Holmes' arm, and clasped them in front of me, willing them to stay still. The light that shone illuminated only us and a circle of floor with a diameter of perhaps fifteen metres around us. The light ensured also that we could see a little into the blackness of the room - shadows…not moving shadows…but perhaps, like in my dream, they would soon start to move. I positioned myself in front of Holmes, ready to defend him from any attacks. In my muddled mind, this seemed like the best solution.

Holmes took hold of my arm and drew me back. His voice was warm, and wonderfully calm, "Watson…" he said "What are you doing?"

"I…I…" I tried to speak, but the words died in my throat. Blast it all! We had to get out of there soon, or I would run mad.

A whisper. We both turned, whipping around, searching for the source. "Was that…?" Holmes began, but then, another. And another. In very little time, a great cacophony of whispers had filled the gallery. They had no source…they came from every which way…

Then, a voice, coming sharp and clear and piercing, emanating from one place on the wall opposite the window. "I can hear you…" The voice…a woman's…was at the same time menacing and teasing. Chilling us both to the very bone. We stayed there, our ears filled by the whispers that said nothing at all, facing the place where the voice had come from. Then again… "I can see you…"

The voice was emanating from one particular painting. There was a loud crack, and the painting was lit - a beautiful woman, in Tudor dress, with a dog at her feet, dark red cascading hair, and dark blue eyes - eyes that seemed to bore into a person's very soul. I could stand it no longer, and closed my eyes, trying to block out the sounds, and the memory of that captivating painting. Holmes, however, must have kept his eyes open, as I felt him stiffen beside me. But…something was wrong, surely. His breathing was rapid, and he must have been a minute or two from hyperventilating. And…there were soft…growls?…coming from his mouth.

In shock, I opened my eyes. The painting was in darkness again, but the whispering had not stopped, but I did not care. I had more important things to worry about. The man beside me was still staring at the place where the painting had been lit. He was almost in a trance. His face was stark white, and his eyes were staring, with a wildness about them. Forgetting my fear, I nudged him gently "Holmes?" I murmured. There was no answer. But he kept making those almost bestial noises - low, quiet growls. "Holmes?" I tried again, being a little more forceful in my tugs on his arm.

He turned to me. And I realised he was not himself. His face screwed up into a look of complete hatred, and before I knew what was happening, he had punched me, hard across the face. I fell backwards hitting my head on the floor, my nose streaming with blood - it was not broken, but it was close - and looked up at him. He laughed, wildly, and soullessly, and in a spilt second, I felt his hands close around my throat, throttling me. I began to see stars, and purple dots in front of my eyes, and realised that I could not last this ordeal for long. So I did something that I had promised myself I would never do. I struck him hard in the face, and he pulled back, clutching his own nose. Then he started to howl, like a wounded animal. But unlike an animal, he was shouting words: "No…please…no…not him…you will not take them…!" Whatever had hold of my friend was inside his mind, bringing nightmares and terrible dreams to the fore. I had to get him out of here.

I tried to get to him, but he was distraught. So, hesitating only for a second, I removed my revolver from my pocket, and hit him over the head with it - hard enough to render him unconscious, but not so hard to do any lasting damage. Then, I picked him up, and ignoring the whispers and darkness, ran to where I remembered the door being. My memory was good, heightened by my desire to get Holmes to safety. I tried the handle, but while it moved, I realised that the door was locked. I found the lock with my fingers, then aimed the revolver at it and fired, shooting the lock off. Flinging open the door, I ran out, carrying my friend, then slammed the door behind me, and tried to get to somewhere light.

I found a place, a window-seat by a large, stained-glass window, where there was, at least a little light, and set Holmes down upon it. I set to work probing his head (just a small bump) and then doctored his nose (which was not bleeding, but did have a nasty bruise forming on it). Then, leaving Holmes to come to himself (and hoping he would be Holmes when he awoke) I saw to my own injuries - my bleeding nose, and my bruised throat and head. I must have looked quite a state - I did not have anything to wipe the drying blood off my face, and my collar and tie were covered in it.

I heard a groan behind me, and turned, coming to kneel next to Holmes, and taking hold of his hand, not caring if he was still enchanted by…well, whatever it was. My heart was considerably lightened when he whispered "Watson?" His eyes were closed tight, like he was afraid to open them for what he might see.

"Yes, Holmes." I said "It is alright. It is just me here. We are safe for now."

Holmes opened his eyes, and took in my appearance, before closing them again in abject mortification. A moment passed, before he opened his eyes, and I noticed an unnatural gleam in those grey orbs. "Oh heavens Watson," he murmured "What did I do to you?"

"It is alright, Holmes. You were not yourself."

"That is no excuse!" Holmes' voice was angry, vehement "I should have controlled myself!"

"There is no way you could have!" I said, my voice raising as well "Heaven knows what happened to you…but whatever it was, it was not something you could have stopped."

Holmes stared at me, and then nodded "But I hurt you, my dearest friend."

"I have had worse, and I have no doubt that in the future I will have worse. There is a lot of blood, but my nose is not broken. The back of my head is a little bruised, as is my throat, but it is nothing to worry about. Please Holmes, calm yourself. I do not blame you."

"Thank you." Holmes' voice was stronger and he murmured "I remember it all…but it was like another person carried out all those actions…like it was not me."

"It was not you." I stated. "You were in some kind of trance. I shut my eyes when the painting was illuminated, but you did not."

Holmes nodded, "I saw…terrors I cannot even begin to describe. It was like my worst nightmares…situations I have been in, but changed. Changed so the worse possible consequences come of them." I looked at him, my eyebrows raised in a question. Holmes coloured "I saw…the hound…on Dartmoor…attack us. And in Morton Manor…I did not reach you and Meredith in time…"

I raised a hand, stopping the flow of his speech, and not wanting to bring back any more awful memories. "I do not need to know anything else, Holmes, if you do not wish to speak it."

Holmes nodded "Thank you." He seemed a little recovered, and with my help, got to his feet. "Come Watson," he said, quietly "I do believe we have outstayed our welcome. Let us get out and come back later with a larger group of people."

"Flaming torches and pitchforks included?" I smiled.

Holmes smiled back, and said "If it comes to it."

I was immensely pleased that the ordeal he had been through had not seemed to have done any damage to either his brain or his sense of humour and we walked off together, to try and find a way out.


	13. Terrors Considered

**OK, slightly scaring myself with the last chapter (yeah, that's creepy), but** **still got a bit of a way to go…**

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's concepts, characters or ideas.**

**Chapter 12**

We made our way around the house, Holmes still weak, and I half-carrying him. We walked for a while, trying to find a way out of the blasted house. But, the house was again impenetrable. Windows and doors were locked fast. I tried to shoot through one of the windows, but it was like the windows were reinforced. The bullet seemed to bounce off the glass, and embedded itself into a wooden post. I sighed aloud, frustrated, and cursed. "Watson!" Holmes' voice was amused, "My goodness, I fear that our sojourns to London's docks have put you in the way of some rather bad habits."

I smiled a little, and we continued. The house was still dark, but I opened one door to be greeted by a blast of light. The room, indeed, seemed almost pleasant. It was a large room, the dining room. It was situated just in a position to capture most of the sun's light, even on an awful day like this. The windows were barred, but enough light came through to illuminate the pale coloured wallpaper, the mahogany detailing and the large mahogany table and chairs. "Watson? Please, can we stop here?" Holmes said, his voice tense. I nodded, and helped to set him down on a chair.

"This is by far the most pleasant room," I murmured, surveying it. I turned to Holmes "Are you feeling better now?"

"Much. Thank you, Watson. I am sure I need only a few moments until I am completely recovered."

I smiled "There is really no hurry. I do not think we will be able to get out of this place anyway. We will have to wait for help."

Holmes nodded "You are probably right. And if the climax of this case is to be as dangerous as the rest of it, we will need all our strength." I looked at him in surprise. That was the kind of thing I would usually say. Holmes grinned "You see, Doctor, you are more of a good influence on me than you believe."

"I cannot believe that!"

Holmes let out a short bark of laughter. It seemed to jar his head, because he moaned softly, and placed his hand against the back of his head. Guiltily, I murmured "Sorry, old man."

Holmes smiled ruefully "You were right to do it. Heaven knows what I would have done to you if you had not. As you say, it is only a small lump." He looked up at me "But by heaven, Watson, you look like you have been attacked by one of Mr Stoker's creations!"

"Ah! You said you had not read them…gothic romance…utterly unrealistic…that's what you called them. Have you been raiding my bookshelves when I was not present?"

"Erm…well…" Holmes squirmed and I chuckled, taking a seat next to him.

"So, I suppose we are to 'set up camp' as it were?"

"I believe that this is the safest spot…well lit…no other door apart from the one we entered by…" I nodded, and studied Holmes. His colour had improved…that was good, and the bruise on the side of his nose had blossomed into a myriad of purples and reds. His hands had returned to their usually steady state, and there was not the look of terror in his eyes anymore. Holmes smiled gently "Am I looking better, Watson?"

"Very much so. Apart from the bruise on your nose."

"It is a good job that I am not vain then."

I smiled "And that it should have faded by the time you next take young Meredith to the opera."

"Yes…that too."

We sat there, in silence for a moment. "Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think this house is really haunted?"

Holmes considered for a moment. "I do not believe in ghosts, Watson."

"Not even the ghosts of your own mind?"

"They are something completely different. You cannot avoid them in my line of work…in our line of work. Detectives, Doctors, Soldiers. All have the possibility of being haunted by past mistakes, accidents, horrors."

I nodded. "Yes," my mind mused on his words, "Yes, that is true."

I was pulled out of my reverie by Holmes' hand on my shoulder. "Are you well, old fellow?"

I smiled quickly at him, looking down to study my hands, trying to focus my mind. "My dream…"

Holmes put his head on one side, "What of it?"

"I saw the gallery…before we were in there today…it was a premonition. How on earth did I know that we would be there? I start to see that even some of the pictures were the same."

"Are you sure? You may be inventing similarities where there were none."

"I am positive." I shook my head. "Thank heavens it only partly came true…"

Holmes considered me questioningly "You could tell me, you know," he gazed around "I do not suppose we are going anywhere for a while."

I chuckled "You really want to know?"

He looked at me, his face gentle, his eyes meeting mine "I may seem like an automaton, Watson…and I probably will not be able to comfort you…and doubtless we will both find this exceedingly uncomfortable…but you are my friend. And I think you need to talk about this…and perhaps I need to listen."

I looked at him in surprise, but then nodded, seeing the wisdom in what he was saying. "I was in the gallery…there were lights, and I was bound by something. You were there," I blushed, and looked up. Holmes met my eyes and nodded encouragingly. "The figures in some of the pictures came to life. I saw their faces…they were people who threatened you…people who tried to kill you…Stapleton…Roylett…and others…they all had guns…and they shot you. And I could not stop it." I stopped, my mind full of images. That dream…those people. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the image of my friend lying lifeless on the floor, his lifeblood draining away…but they would not leave.

Holmes placed a hand on my shoulder, squeezed it, and said "Watson. Look at me." I acquiesced to his request, and looked into his face. "May I tell you what I saw when I was so…affected on the train?"

I stared at him. It was not often that he confided his innermost feelings to me…and he had never told me details of what he saw in his nightmares. For eight years now, I had had the room above him - heard him cry out in his sleep, wrestle with heaven knows what - but he never told me details, just apologised if he had awoken me. "You may tell me. I will listen, of course."

"Thank you, my friend. A few days before we received this case, I saw a picture…a painting…of a battlefield in Afghanistan. It was…horrible. Bodies…mutilated bodies…mud…gore. I do not know how you stood it."

"We had to stand it."

Holmes nodded "Yes. I have always known that you are a braver man than I. In the dream, I was on that battlefield - a soldier, in uniform. You were there too…I saw a man take aim at you…fire his rifle. I tried to warn you, but…by the time I reached you, you were dying. You died in my arms…" These last few words were barely audible…just a whisper.

Silence. Then, I broke it "Dear Lord, this house is making us melancholy."

Holmes smiled ruefully "I know. We should really keep a distance between ourselves and places like this."

I turned, and got up, spying something of interest. Holmes followed me with his eyes, and watched as I opened the door to a cabinet. A drinks cabinet, complete with glasses and a very fine bottle of whisky. I poured two glasses of it, and sipped it, just to check that it had not spoiled, and had not been tampered with. It seemed quite alright, and I carried a glass over to Holmes, gave it to him, and claimed back my seat. "It is not half bad, this…" I said, taking another sip.

"I suppose it could be worse," muttered Holmes, always the connoisseur. "Aged rather too much…but…I suppose it can only be as old as you." He looked at me, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I snorted "Thank you Holmes. May I remind you that you are only three years my junior?"

"Ah, three years, my old fellow. And may I remind you that my bones do not creak when I sit on the floor?"

I smiled ruefully, and took another sip of the whisky. All of a sudden, I heard something which almost made me drop the glass. A whisper. "Please, Holmes, tell me that was you…"

Holmes shook his head. "Not me, Watson."

"There really something here, is there not…?"

"I think so."

We both got to our feet. Another whisper made us turn. But which way did it come from? It echoed around the room, meaning that we were not quite sure of it's point of origin. Another whisper…then another.

"Are you quite sure this place is not haunted?" I asked, trying desperately to make light of the situation.

"All these whispers…make me unsure of any logic."

All of a sudden, we heard the most enormous crash, that made us both jump. We both looked at each other, knowing exactly where it had come from. The gallery. We waited for only a moment, before leaving the room, mounting the stairs, and heading off to face whatever waited for us in the gallery.


	14. Following the Noises

**Yes, Holmes and Watson are running straight into certain danger. Why? Because they are men. Is it me, or in scary movies is it most usually the guys who go striding off into danger (usually holding what they see as a dangerous weapon, but what is in actuality a rather large stick)? **

**E Phoenix - Yes, I too have noticed the distinct lack of trousers (pants?) on women in a lot of scary movies. Also, it must be noted that quite often the men are topless - it's like, yes, I am going to die a terrible death in a minute, but I might as well look good while I'm at it…**

**Anyway, back to the story (and just to clear up any confusion with that last rant, Holmes and Watson are fully dressed. So if they do die, they will at least be dying with their trousers on.)**

* * *

**Disclaimer - Holmes and Watson do not belong to me. However, Erica Montjoy and her assorted lackeys do belong to me. I am not sure if that is a good thing or not. **

**This again, is going to be quite a short chapter (Sorry!)**

**Chapter 13**

As I was running, the thoughts flooding my head were telling me to go back…get out…but as I looked ahead, I saw not a moment of hesitation from Holmes, and so I followed. I had always promised myself that his protection would be my responsibility, and I was not going to back away now, despite the fear that arose in me. We ran through the half-darkness, the corridor lit by candles I certainly did not remember seeing before. They cast an eerie light on everything, elongating shadows - and the whispers still sounded.

Most of the windows were either barred or boarded, but out of one, I could see that it was night. I had no idea how long we had been in this place, but by heavens, I wished we were out of it. There was a great silver full moon that night, and silver light shone though the gaps in the windows, illuminating pictures on the walls, ornaments on shelves, and yet more of those terrifying dolls, mutilated and in pieces, their faces smiling, their glass eyes glinting.

We reached the door of the gallery, and both hesitated. I was in overt fear of what lay beyond the door, and Holmes did not look much better either. The door was ajar, and there was moonlight beyond. Holmes took a deep breath and flung open the door, both of us pulling out our revolvers - ready for what ever was there. But, there was nothing. Even the whispers had stopped.

I scanned the room, trying to make out the source of the crash. My eyes came to rest on that painting - the one of the Tudor woman which had been almost our undoing before - but it was gone.

Well, not precisely gone. The canvas had been taken off the wall to reveal a door, which too was ajar. Cautiously, we made our way over. The canvas laid on the floor, the painting lying face up. But…there was a difference to it. The woman had an expression of absolute fear on one side of her face. And on the other…a decomposing skeleton, grinning almost demonically at us. I shrunk back, feeling a vague sickness come over me. Holmes, meanwhile was kneeling by the side of the painting, studying it.

"Watson…" he beckoned me over.

I moved to his side, trying not to look at the thing's face, and knelt next to him "What do you see?"

"This." Holmes lifted the large painting and positioned it so that the light was behind it. And then I saw. Instead of pupils, the woman had two small holes. "When I looked at the painting before…" said Holmes "I looked straight into it's eyes. I remember, they were the last thing that flashed through my mind."

"What does it mean?"

"Hypnotism, Watson."

"Hypnotism? But that is all rot Holmes…"

"No. I would suggest that most of the people who committed suicide from in or from this room were driven to it by the stillness, the whispers, the voice…but what of they were not susceptible? What if the villain had to have another plan?"

"So they were hypnotised? And bent to this woman's will?"

"Indeed."

"But that does not explain the whispers…the assassination attempts…the dolls…"

"No. It does not." Holmes stood and considered the door. "I fancy that behind this door, we should find our murderess."

"Then let us go…"

"We should spilt up. It is too dangerous…go and see if you can find us another way out."

I turned to face him, and grasped him by the lapels of the jacket. "Do not dare! Several times you have said this day that I am to leave you, whilst you wander off. If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times. No!" I removed my hands, but reiterated "A hundred times, no."

Holmes nodded his head "You must see, Watson, that I was bound to try."

"I see it Holmes." I reached into the pocket of my waistcoat, and pulled out my pocket-watch. "A quarter to eight."

"At least for the sake of our reason, it is not midnight."

"Good Point. Onwards and Upwards, Holmes?"

Holmes quirked a small smile at me, and walked over to the door, which opened inwards. I made after him, but stopped when he did at the foot of a set of stairs. "Are you sure, Watson?"

"Absolutely."

"By heaven, I am glad I have my Boswell with me."

We started the stairs. They were spiralled, dank, dark and miserable, lit by long white candles and small stained glass windows. We continued, upwards and upwards. Halfway there, I missed a step, my thigh throbbing. Holmes reached back and grabbed my arm before I could fall backwards.

"Are you alright?" His voice was soft, full of concern.

I nodded. The pain was almost unbearable, but I had to continue. For Holmes. He let go of my arm and muttered "Perhaps you should go ahead. Then if anything happens, I could catch you."

I smiled "Catch me? By heavens, Holmes, I would knock you down the stairs…"

Holmes grinned ruefully "If you are sure…?"

"Positive. Go on, old fellow."

And so we did. Up, up, up the stairs, until we came to the top, and a large, oak door. We both retrieved our revolvers, glanced at each other, and rushed in.

We were met by a piercing white light, that seemed to burn my eyes. Someone pulled the revolver out of my hand, and, unable to see anything, I could do nothing to fight back. Beside me, I heard Holmes cry out in anger, but he too could do nothing. When we had been relieved of our weapons, the light dimmed. My eyes adjusted back to normal, and I rubbed them, hard, trying to dispel the imprints of shapes of light from my eyes.

I heard a light laugh and looked up. Our quarry. She sat on a chair opposite us, flanked by two huge looking men. She was of middle height, lithe, and undoubtedly beautiful. She had long, dark brown hair, deep green eyes and tanned, olive coloured skin. There was something in her manner, in her bearing, however, that dispelled any beauty that she may have had. The feeling radiating off of her was pure evil. I felt Holmes shudder, his repulsion clear on his face. The woman - or Erica Montjoy, as I supposed she must be - was aged in her early-to-mid thirties, although I would say that she was probably closer to my age than she was to Holmes'. She wore a green dress, which brought out the colour - and the malice - in her eyes even stronger.

At that precise moment, however, she was grinning wickedly at us. "Good evening, gentlemen" she said, her accent American, but with slightly Arabic inflections and a completely English vocabulary, "Welcome to my little den. Please," her voice lowered threateningly "Make yourselves at home…"


	15. Erica Montjoy

**Just to clear something up from my last rant…Holmes and Watson are not going to die…well, at least I don't think they are…but then again…perhaps I should hold them hostage…more nice reviews, and I don't hurt them…;**

**Disclaimer - Holmes and Watson are not mine. They belong to ACD. Meredith, Erica and her friends all belong to me. **

**Chapter 14**

We stood there in silence. My face, I have been informed, was a picture of surprise and shock, whereas my friend's was more composed, despite the look of distaste on his face. He reverted to the cool, composed Holmes who confronted villains on our other cases - sarcastic, sardonic, magnificent. "I take it that you are Miss Erica Montjoy?"

Montjoy grinned, and clapped her hands "Brava! Brava! My dear Holmes, all reports of your…talents…ring true."

"May I ask what you mean by your attempts on our lives?"

Montjoy looked at me dismissively "Believe me, it was never him we cared about. Bah! Why focus your attention on the bodyguard when you can get rid of the real thing?"

I stepped forward "You will not touch him, madam. Not while I have strength left in my body."

"Oh, the loyal Doctor. How touching." Montjoy twisted a lock of her hair around her forefinger "You know, my dear, I could let you go free…"

"I would never go…"

Holmes murmured "Watson…"

I turned, looking him in the eye, and saying vehemently "No! I told you…I will not leave you."

"Oh, a little argument. Struck a cord, have I?"

I turned angrily to her "What kind of unnatural woman are you…?"

The woman stood, smiling. Her smile was beginning to unsettle me. Why did she always smile? She walked over to me, placed a hand against my face and cooed "Oh, brave Doctor. Taking out all his fear and frustrations on a woman…" Then she struck me, hard, across the face.

The force of the blow took me a little by surprise, and whilst I did not fall or step backwards, I did stand staring at her for a moment. Holmes stepped forward, but was stopped by the bulk of one of Montjoy's lackeys standing in his way.

"Now, now, gentlemen. This is hardly polite. Please, sit down." She motioned to one of the men, who placed two hard-backed, dining room style chairs behind us, and then pushed us into them. Montjoy, meanwhile went to sit in her chair. "Now. To business."

"Business?" Holmes' voice was full of scorn. "What kind of business would I want to do with you?"

"Do not mock me, Mr Holmes. I am not the sort of woman a man gets away with mocking."

Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I do not make a habit of mocking women, Miss Montjoy. Only the ones who I feel absolutely no respect for."

"Mr Holmes, please. I thought you were meant to be a gentleman…"

"And I was under the impression that you were a lady…obviously I was mistaken."

I noticed, with some satisfaction that Montjoy's smile had dimmed a little. She considered Holmes, and then her smile broadened. "You will hear my terms, Holmes."

"You will do me the courtesy of addressing me with my prefix, Miss Montjoy. And no, I shall not."

Montjoy clicked her fingers. One of the thugs moved over to me, drawing a knife as he did so. Then he placed the cold steel against my throat. Holmes made to get up, but Montjoy said, quickly "I assure you, Holmes. One more move from you, and Richards here will slit the dear doctor's throat from one ear to the other. Do you understand?" She nodded at the thug, and he pressed the blade a little harder into one side of my throat. I felt a thin sliver of blood trickle down. Holmes' composure slipped for a moment, and then returned.

"You will unhand him, now. I shall hear your terms."

Montjoy nodded, and the thug stepped back from me, removing the knife. I rubbed my throat. The cut was only a surface wound.

"A wise plan, Holmes. And if you do not mind, I shall continue to call you Holmes…remember, you say one thing I do not like, and I shall have one of my friends dispose of the doctor."

Holmes glanced at me, and held my gaze for a moment, before nodding. "What do you want of me?"

"No, no, no Holmes. Please, indulge me. Ask me the questions I know that you must have."

"Actually," Holmes said "I have very few."

Montjoy studied him. "What?"

"I had surmised, for example that you staged your own death some years ago. Whilst Erica Montjoy is your real name, you went under the name of Patricia Smith for some of your more unsavoury business - before you became…what do they call you?…the 'Queen of the Underworld'. There, Watson," he said, turning to me "A rather exciting title for when you write this case up in your shockingly lurid manner." I grinned, and he continued "Under the name of Smith, you were the owner of a brothel, a drug den, an illegal gambling house…a very interesting career choice for a daughter of such illustrious parents as yours…"

"You have researched my past…well done."

"Smith became a woman of great fortune, but she was also followed night and day by the police, who hoped that she would one day slip up, and give herself away. So she spent a small amount of her money on this house…and then…disappeared."

"Precisely, Holmes. Goodness me, they do not exaggerate, do they?"

Holmes met her eyes, and said simply "No. They do not. If I may continue?"

"Certainly."

"On your…disappearance, you took the name Montjoy, and went back to the London underworld. There you met Moriarty, became his mistress, and formed the idea of forging a crime syndicate made up entirely of women. Women who were disillusioned, rich, willing to involve themselves in your schemes…become maids, cooks, housekeepers…as your spies."

"Yes. That is true. I have had several spies following you, Mr Holmes. Maids at Stoke Moran, Baskerville Hall, even at Morton Manor. Do you remember young Elizabeth?" I thought back…trying to picture her. Oh, yes. She was plain, short, plump, had served us a glass of mulled wine whilst we sat in front of the fire with Lord and Lady Throckmorton… "She was one of mine. The younger daughter of a merchant banker. A rich man. I thought you might enjoy the little touch of having your past cases resurrected, especially after that first attempt on your life failed."

"You are too kind. I take it the dog was well-researched? The spawn of the original Hound? The snake was placed by one of the older bar-maids at the tavern, and the chemical was placed by the woman who vacated the carriage before we entered it?"

"Very good, Holmes. My heavens, are you not clever?" Her voice was mocking, like she was speaking to a child.

"So, you made this house uninhabitable."

"Indeed. I had all the money in the world at my disposal. A few contraptions…a knowledge of hypnotism…good acting skills…all came in useful. I played on people's fears, suspicions. Kept this room as an 'office'. The gallery became my murder weapon…driving people to suicide."

"But why?" I asked "Why kill those men? Drive the others insane?"

"I can answer that, Watson," said Holmes "You remember the telegram I received that day? It was from Mycroft. He told me that all the men who committed suicide had one thing in common. They all worked in secret for the government. They were following and monitoring Miss Montjoy's little organisation."

"Indeed. And now, I bought you here for the same thing."

Holmes looked at her, his smile mocking "Are you going to kill me, Montjoy? Because I warn you…there are others that know we are here."

"Oh, I know that Holmes." Montjoy had reverted to her confident, almost flirtatious alter-ego, twiddling a lock of hair. "I know that very well. What did you see, Holmes? When I hypnotised you? Horrors of the past?"

Holmes stiffened, but said nothing, instead turning to me, and saying very audibly "You know, I am dashed hungry, Watson."

Montjoy looked at him with a mixture of surprise and hatred and then said "It must have been perfectly horrible. Happened to some of the others too. Death by fright. Killed themselves and saved me the trouble. I ensnared them with their own greed. A big house like this…selling for a pittance." She viewed Holmes again "You know, there is a way out of this…you will not be hurt…your friend will not be hurt…"

"I am listening."

"Stand down, Holmes. Tell the world you made a grievous error - there is no such thing as a crime syndicate. Tell the world that your detective skills let you down…it will of course, ruin your reputation…humiliate you…but surely, that is a fair price to pay."

"And at the same time, you will continue with your murders, your prostitutes, your organised crime, robberies…everything. No. I shall not stand aside. Never."

I nodded "I am in agreement, Holmes." Holmes turned and smiled at me.

"I will kill your friend the doctor."

Holmes stayed silent, his face growing paler, but I spoke up "I would die gladly if I knew justice had been done."

My friend looked at me proudly, and I felt a great surge of confidence in myself. Holmes continued "I warn you, Miss Montjoy. Even if you were to kill us, I have passed papers detailing your little syndicate to my brother. If I have not got in contact with him in…" he pulled out his pocket watch, and looked at the time "Three hours, he will publish the papers and your organisation will fall to the ground. I have gathered all the evidence I need."

I expected Montjoy to look shocked at this, but instead she laughed. "Oh, my dear. I know that there are three people you care about…three people who it would hurt you exceedingly for me to get rid of. One is the good doctor here. In a few minutes, I shall kill him in front of your eyes if you do not accept my terms. The other is dear Mycroft. One of my spies…a young woman who works as a cleaner, planted a bomb in his office , where he is sure to be this evening. In ten minutes, he and your papers will be blown to kingdom come."

Holmes looked at her, his eyes clouded with fear "You…"

"And the last…the pretty little Throckmorton girl. The time is a quarter past eight. Lady Throckmorton is, at this very moment fifteen minutes into an hour long public lecture on 'Romeo and Juliet' at her school. Last week, said school received the very generous donation of a new telephone. Just like the one I have here." She got up, and walked over to it. "One word, Mr Holmes, and a couple of minutes later, the sniper sitting in the lecture will fire a rather remarkable airgun, and she will die. Your choice, Holmes. Your reputation and your friends or my suggestions."

Holmes' mask of absolute composure had completely dropped. He looked a broken man. He met my eyes, and I reached over and squeezed his hand. At this, a fire of confidence came into his eyes, and he turned back to Montjoy. "I will never agree to your terms. Never. I do not care about my reputation…"

"And your friends?"

I looked up "His friends know that whatever happens…if it destroys you, it will be worth it."

"I have worked my entire life bringing down people like you. I am not going to stop now." Holmes' voice rose in anger.

"Very well." Montjoy lifted the earpiece of the phone and spoke into the microphone. Holmes' knuckles grew white, clutching the arm of the chair. A couple of minutes passed, and Montjoy connected with the school. Her agent was obviously waiting near the telephone, because she said "Marguerite? Tell the sniper that he may fire. Kill her…" She put the earpiece down, and hooked it on the hook provided. "Now," she said, "Richards, Carroll - kill the doctor…"


	16. The Queen of the Underworld

**Only a couple more chapters to go now…**

**Disclaimer - I do not on any of ACD's characters, concepts or ideas. I do, however, own Meredith, Erica and her various friends. **

**Chapter 15**

I was wrenched off my seat by one of the thugs, and thrown against a wall. My head struck it, and a wave of nausea and dizziness struck me, as I fought to get to my feet. Holmes tried to get up, but he was pressed back into his chair by the other huge man - Carroll? - and was unable to come to my aid. Richards picked up a huge club, bringing it back over his head…aiming to completely crush my head…but when he brought it down, I dodged out of the way, and caught hold of one end of his club. This obviously caught him by surprise, as I managed to pull it out of his hands, and threw it down behind me.

The man stood there, staring for a moment. It was Montjoy's voice which spurred him on. "For heaven's sake, Richards, do not just stand there gawping. Kill him!" Richards run forward, and aimed a blow at my head, which I blocked, before swinging a fist at him, connecting with his jaw. He cried out in pain, and tried to hit me again. This time, I was not so quick, and the large signet ring that he wore grazed me slightly, on the side of the face. He grinned, and made a run at me, but I moved out of the way…and he run head-first into the hard brick wall.

Holmes let out a cry of laughter. Montjoy cursed in a way really not becoming to a lady, and shouted "Carroll! Kill him!"

As soon as Carroll let Holmes go, my friend got to his feet, but was stopped by the barrel of a revolver digging into the side of his head. "No, Holmes!" I yelled. I turned to face Carroll. He had picked up the club that Richards had dropped, and flung it with all his might at me. The club flew through the air, and hit me squarely in the stomach, winding me, and sending me to the floor. Groaning, I righted myself, and tried to remember some of Holmes' boxing training. Bringing up my fists into a guard position, I managed to block three blows, before landing one of my own into his stomach.

It did not even seem to faze him, and he grinned at me. I took the opportunity to rather wipe the smile off his face…sure that at his hands, I would meet my death, I forgot all rules of gentlemanly fighting and kneed him in a place which made him turn a deep crimson colour and start swearing. Whilst he was somewhat distracted, I took the opportunity to land a hard right hook, then an uppercut, before knocking him out completely with a swift punch to the middle of his face.

Montjoy stood staring for a while, and then, to my surprise, laughed. "Well done, Doctor. Very good!" She still had the gun levelled at Holmes, and I did not move, not wanting to risk my friend's life. The three of us stood there for a few minutes, just looking at one another. Holmes had a look of anger on his face, Erica was grinning wickedly, and I was trying to school my features into a look of indifference, despite the blood dripping from my grazed knuckles.

"Well, Miss Montjoy…" said Holmes, breaking the silence "It would seem that we are at a stalemate."

"No stalemate, Holmes. I am going to kill your friend, and then I am going to kill you. And…" she said, looking at her pocket-watch "Your brother's office will have just been blown sky-high."

As if on cue, the telephone began to ring. Montjoy, still keeping the revolver on Holmes, moved over and answered it. "Good Evening…" she said "Of course it is me…what?…no…why?…" Montjoy was obviously hearing bad news. Her face blanched, and her lips twisted into a scowl. Did I notice a look of triumph on Holmes' face? Montjoy slammed down the telephone and turned to Holmes. "It seems that one of my…plans has rather…come off the rails."

"I thought it would." Holmes smirked "I am afraid that I realised that my brother was in danger from the beginning of this case. As such, he has not been in his office for the past few days, and office has been watched closely. I take it that a man, posing as my brother, was in fact a expert in diffusing bombs? Well done Mycroft."

Montjoy scowled, and then seemed to remember something, her face recovering her former jollity. "Ah, but little Meredith will still be dead. I am afraid my sniper is a rather good shot."

Holmes looked at me, and I saw within his eyes a deep fear and sadness. He undoubtedly believed that the poor girl was dead.

"And…" Montjoy's voice rang out "There is always the Doctor."

She swung the weapon around to bring it to bear on my forehead. Holmes started forward, but the woman cocked the revolver "One false move, Mr Holmes…and I shall make sure the doctor suffers before he dies."

I glanced at Holmes, and he threw me a look of complete helplessness. At that moment, I was sure that I was about to die. "Holmes…" I muttered, staring down the barrel of the gun.

"Watson?" Holmes' voice was tense, both with anger and fear.

"Do not blame yourself."

"Oh, how sweet. Of course, Mr Holmes, completely false. Of course you must blame yourself. I certainly would. Your best friend…killed because of you." She turned her head back to look at me. "Goodbye, Doctor."

Her finger tightened around the trigger, and she was about to fire, when Holmes flew at her, tackling her to the ground. From her position on the floor, she tried to get another shot at me, but she was no match for Holmes, who pulled the gun from her hand, and got to his feet. He threw the gun across the room, and then, nonchalantly swept the dirt from the knees of his trousers and straightened his tie.

Montjoy stayed on the floor, looking up at the two of us, before getting to her feet.

"I am afraid, Madam…" said Holmes "That your little game is over. You will come with us back to Lionsmere, and then onwards, to be charged with the murders of all the men and women you and your organisation have killed. I have no doubt whatsoever that you will be hanged."

Montjoy seemed to be in some sort of daydream. Almost unconsciously, she moved her hand up to her face. As she had fallen backwards, her cheek had been scraped by one of Holmes' cufflinks as he reached for the gun. The cut was shallow, bleeding only a little. "I will not be hanged…" she whispered, softly.

"I think you will find that you shall be," Holmes murmured "Even if I have to do it myself."

Montjoy made a quick movement, pulling a knife out of her dress. Her face was frenzied, and I was sure that she had run completely mad. She lowered it to her stomach. "I will kill myself!"

"No, you will not," I said, my voice steady. I stepped towards her, feeling not pity, but a need to make sure that the woman did not die a relatively easy death here. I wanted her to be made an example of…wanted her confession to be used to make sure that she was adjudged guilty of all the pain and death she had caused…and Meredith… I reached out a hand for the knife, and to my surprise, the woman relinquished it without a fight. She stepped backwards, no longer frightening, no longer smiling and no longer beautiful.

Montjoy stared at the two of us, her eyes wide and mad, as if trying to decide which of us would be more likely to allow her to get away. Then, she laughed, a horrible, soulless laugh, and stepped backwards. She thrust her hand into a pocket, then put whatever was in the pocket in her mouth, before either Holmes or myself could relax. "A suicide pill!" she shrieked, and I heard Holmes' exclamation of frustration. "Moriarty gave it to me. Better a quick death than a hanging." She turned to Holmes "I warn you, my friend…he loves me. His vengeance will be upon you…" Then, with a scream, she fell to the floor.

I went to her side, and checked her pulse. "She is dead, Holmes." I felt a mixture of emotions at this - relief of course, but also anger, hatred, annoyance. I wanted her to pay for all she had done, and yet she died a painless death in front of only the two of us.

I looked up to see that Holmes was standing at the telephone, giving the name of Meredith's school. I stood and went to stand next to him. Holmes turned the earpiece slightly so that I could hear what was said. The telephone was answered at the other end, and I heard a great deal of activity in the background…shouts, commands…the telephone was answered by a man "Good evening?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes…"

"Ah, yes…" the man said, before Holmes could say any more. We heard him say "Sir, this is for you."

"Hello?" To my surprise, the voice was Mycroft's.

Holmes too seemed surprised because he said "Mycroft? What are you…"

"Doing here? Surely you can work that out, Sherlock. It is quite elementary. When you warned me that I was in danger of my life, I realised that your friend Miss Throckmorton was as well. So today, on the day of her lecture, I and a few government agents were sitting ready to act."

"And Lady Meredith…is she…"

"Lady Meredith is fine. If a little shaken. We told her of the risk to her life beforehand, but I must say, she acted very bravely. Despite the offer to get her as far as possible away from here, she continued with her lecture."

"The sniper?"

"Oh, he shot at her alright. She had to make a rather acrobatic jump off the stage and into the orchestra pit. Apart from a few scratches and a nasty bruise on her forehead, she will be fine. She asks me to tell you Sherlock, that next time she gives a highly important lecture, you are to inform her if she is to be shot at in good time."

Holmes chuckled, and then said "And Montjoy's agents?"

"One is dead…another two are in custody. I am afraid though that the sniper managed to escape our clutches."

Holmes sighed, frustrated, but then muttered "Oh, very well, Mycroft. Thank you, anyway."

"Thank you for your gratitude, Sherlock. Next time I feel a need to help you, I shall hold back." I grinned. Mycroft continued, his voice serious. "Miss Montjoy?"

"Dead, I am afraid."

"Did you…?"

"No. She had a suicide pill."

"I see. Watch yourself, Sherlock, and watch the Doctor. She had some very powerful friends."

"Moriarty."

"Indeed. Be careful, brother. And look to the Doctor. I know how it would affect you if you were ever to lose him."

Holmes flushed bright red, and I turned away, trying not to smile.

Holmes bid goodbye to his brother, and we both turned, to look at the body of Montjoy.

"Dear Heavens, Watson…" Holmes said, quietly "She was almost the death of us…"

I nodded. "Her thugs?"

"Out cold. I say, Watson, that was terribly good."

"They were not particularly skilled…"

"Do not be modest, my dear fellow. Soon, you will be ready to best me."

I fingered my sore nose "Somehow, I think not, Holmes."

Holmes looked at me in some concern, and then turned, walking to the window. "It would seem the cavalry and General Lestrade has arrived. With what looks suspiciously like a battering ram. Shall we go and get out of here?"

"I think that would be a good idea, Holmes."

"And then back to Baker Street? Unless…" Holmes grinned at me "You are coming to quite like Lionsmere?"

"Not in a thousand years, Holmes. Back to Baker Street will suit me fine."

"Come, then, Doctor." Holmes slipped his arm through mine, and we left the room, leaving the 'Queen of the Underworld' to the official forces.


	17. Epilogue

**Hi - So sorry its taken so long to finish this - have had loads of stuff - and a holiday in Edinburgh to go to (and have come back with a very Scottish accent…) But now am ready to finish this, and will be working on 'Unsolved' in a few days. **

**Disclaimer - I do not own any of ACD's characters**

**Chapter 16**

Our journey back to London was fairly uneventful, especially in comparison to our journey to Lionsmere earlier. Holmes was quiet for the entirety of the journey, and I could not help feeling a little concerned for him. This case had, after all, affected him far worse than it had affected me. His strength of character, and the control that he had over his own will and emotions had been tested sorely by this case, and I would be glad to get him back into the safety and security of Baker Street.

His silence was beginning to worry me. I had expected him to discuss the case on the train. Instead, he was silent, and he sat staring out of the window. We disembarked the train, walked through the station and caught a cab. I decided to chance my arm and break the oppressive silence. "Holmes?" I said quietly.

He jumped, and looked at me as if only realising that I was sitting there next to him. "Watson. I…sorry, I am afraid that I must have proved a rather tedious companion…"

"You know that I hold no store in that. Your head is hurting you, and you are worried about the threat of that woman…"

Holmes looked at me in surprise, "What?"

I smiled, "It does not take the foremost mind of the generation to work those two pieces of information out. The whole journey, you have been subconsciously rubbing the back of your head, hence my reasoning that you are in some pain. The fact that you have also been staring rather blankly at the countryside for the whole of this trip back to London suggests that you are worried about the ending of this case and what she said to you."

Holmes nodded and looked away "I suppose you are right. You are too often critical of your abilities, Watson. Your deductive reasoning is coming on in leaps and bounds."

I smiled, and we sat in rather more companionable silence until we reached Baker Street. Once we had been greeted by Mrs Hudson, and told that dinner would be ready in an hour or so, we entered the lounge to find Mycroft Holmes sitting in my chair. Holmes, I had to say, looked rather surprised at the appearance of his normally rather sedentary older brother, and considered him for a long moment before saying "Mycroft? What are you doing here?"

"My dear Sherlock, you are meant to be the greatest mind in the Western World. What do you think I am doing here?"

Holmes stared at him for a moment, before taking off his jacket, and pulling on the dressing gown which lay strewn over the back of the sofa. He then moved over to his armchair, sighed deeply, and sank down into it. "My dear brother, I bow to your greater powers."

Mycroft turned to me "I suppose, Doctor, he has been like this since the culmination of your case?"

I nodded, then turned my attention to Holmes. "If you have a headache, Holmes, please allow me to see to that wound and give you something for the pain…"

I was surprised to see Holmes nod, and realised that he really must be in some pain. Retrieving my medical bag, I made my way over to him, and gently tended the wound on the back of his head. It was not too bad, he had no concussion, and the skin was not broken, but there was a few bruises. I gave him something for the pain, and stepped back, to stand next to Mycroft. He had watched the events of the last few moments with a small smile on his face. "So, Sherlock" he said, "I take it your wounds were inflicted by your quarry?"

Holmes looked up and exchanged a glance with me. I sighed and said "No, actually, Mycroft…it was…"

"Yes, that is right, Mycroft. Our 'Queen of the Underworld' had a couple of rather violent thugs."

Mycroft gazed firstly at Holmes and then at me before nodding. I too, stared at Holmes, whilst, at the same time feeling thankful that he had shielded us from having to talk of the case, even to his brother. It would do neither myself or Holmes any good.

"Her body has been removed by the police. Your friend Lestrade dealt with it. He also had to deal with the escape of a rather large and venomous snake in the local police station. It seems it was left there in an old carpet bag, and the duty officer got a little curious…I do not suppose either of you know anything of that…"

Holmes looked at me, and my heart was lightened by the appearance of a small smile on his face. I schooled my features into as innocent a look as possible, and said "A snake? Goodness me, Mr Holmes…what would we be doing with a snake?"

Mycroft nodded, his eyes twinkling humorously, but his face serious. "Well, the animal was captured before too much harm was done. Of course, the policeman…Cartwright or something I believe…did not expect to find said snake in his helmet…but luckily he was not bitten…"

Holmes had started to snigger, and Mycroft winked at me. It seemed that big brother was just as worried about little brother's mental state as best friend was. The lighter we could make the mood, the better. "Do you have any more news for us, Mr Holmes?"

"No, not really…I dropped Lady Meredith off to her sister's house after the events of earlier, and she seemed rather better…still a little shaken, but she had just been shot at. She sends her regards, and says that she hopes that you are well. I think it may be a good idea to telegraph her, Sherlock. She was a little concerned…" Mycroft looked at his watch. "I believe that it is time for me to be going. Goodnight, Sherlock."

Holmes looked up into his brother's face. He suddenly seemed a great deal younger, and murmured "Goodnight, brother mine."

Mycroft stiffened, then walked over to Holmes' chair, placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed it. "Get some sleep, little brother" Mycroft whispered, his tone kind and gentle "You look like you could do with some."

"Thank you, Mycroft."

"Always a pleasure, Sherlock."

I followed Mycroft down the stairs to show him out. As he was leaving, he turned to me. "I sense that Sherlock was not telling me the whole truth as to his injuries…"

"No…" I muttered. "I am afraid it was me."

Mycroft nodded, and turned a pair of penetrating grey eyes on me. "Doctor Watson…I know that nothing but the most pressing need would induce you to cause harm to my brother…"

I smiled ruefully "Yes. I am afraid that it was necessary. Although I feel nothing but grief for it now."

"Of course you do. But if it was necessary…Doctor…"

"Yes?"

"We did not catch the sniper."

I sighed "Ah…"

"You would be performing a great service to me if you kept him safe, Doctor. But something tells me that keeping him safe is always your first concern."

"Always."

"Thank you Doctor. It was a pleasure to see you again. Look after him. And look after yourself. There is something coming…"

"Moriarty."

"Indeed. He will want revenge. But there are others. Take a care."

"I will. Thank you."

Mycroft smiled, then made his way out to a cab. I meanwhile walked up the stairs. Holmes was still in his place on his armchair. He was staring into the fire, the red-orange reflection of the flames flickering in his eyes. I moved over to the mantle, picked up his pipe from the sideboard, stuffed it with tobacco, then lit it. I then knelt to one side of him, and handed him the pipe. Holmes looked down at it for a moment, and then took it from my outstretched hand. "Thank you, my dear fellow." I nodded, patted his arm, and took my place in my armchair. "I take it," continued Holmes "That my older brother was asking you to ensure my safety…"

I nodded "Very perceptive Holmes…now, did you deduce that, or were you, in fact, eavesdropping?"

Holmes smiled slightly "I must confess to the latter, Watson."

"How are you feeling, old man?"

Holmes met my eyes, and I was gratified to see that he looked a little better. His eyes were somewhat brighter and his face had lost some of that deathly pallor. "Better, pleased not to have to tell the world that the souls of the dead do haunt the world."

"No one would believe you anyway."

"Indeed. A tarnished reputation and no mistake." He sighed "It is a shame that other such ghosts cannot be vanquished so easily."

I smiled "It is always worth a try."

"Oh, my dear friend…thank you for your presence on this case. You do not know how much I appreciated it."

I grinned "I have told you before…I am your biographer, bodyguard, doctor and friend. I would never have allowed you to face such a case alone. And whatever is coming, we will face it together…"

Holmes' eyes glinted, and he nodded, before saying "Very eloquently put, Watson. Rather like the happy ending of one of your lurid and florid romantic narratives."

I laughed "One day I shall have you write up one of your cases yourself…then we shall see how popular interest in each of our methods of writing compares."

"You will have silly young women and old housewives reading yours…"

"And you would have crusty old professors and criminals who want to pick up tips reading yours…"

"Touché."

"Thank you." I paused. "You eating tonight, Holmes?"

Holmes glanced at me "Tonight, I shall be the picture of health, Doctor. I will eat and I will sleep, as per my doctor's instructions."

"Good. Thank you. And I hope that you will telegraph Meredith as well…"

Holmes smiled. "Very well." His voice became quieter "It is good she is safe."

"Indeed it is. Heaven knows where you would find another so understanding opera partner, for I will not go with you. The one time I did go, you kept making rather inappropriate observations about the people in the boxes next to us…"

"I should inform you that I am always on my best behaviour with Lady Meredith…"

"You had better be. She may be 'thick-skinned' but I have an idea that she would not countenance such behaviour."

Holmes laughed and I joined in. We were served dinner by Mrs Hudson and ate heartily before taking our places before the fire again - myself reading a book, Holmes gradually drifting off to sleep.

"Holmes?"

"Yes?"

"Do you wish me to write and publish this case?"

"Later."

I looked up "Why, Holmes?"

"Because Watson, I think that the publication of this case would bring unnecessary attention to certain people and organisations. You for one. Please wait…until there is safety."

"Until we have beaten Moriarty?"

Holmes nodded, "Yes."

"Very well."

"I must say…this case came at a very opportune and appropriate time…"

"All Hallows. Indeed. A real ghost story…"

Holmes winced "Please Watson. There is no such thing as ghosts."

I grinned. "So, it comes down to only one thing then, Holmes…"

"What is that?"

"Which would you prefer I to read to you…Dracula or Frankenstein?"

Holmes groaned, shot up off his chair and said "I am going to bed. And if you try reading that rot through my door, I shall spend the next few evenings quoting Euclid at you."

I smiled "A fate worse than death…goodnight Holmes."

"Goodnight, my dear Watson."


End file.
